OR,
THE POT OF BASIL.
A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO.
Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love’s eye!
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell
Without some stir of heart, some malady;
They could not sit at meals but feel how well
It soothed each to be the other by;
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep
But to each other dream, and nightly weep.
With every morn their love grew tenderer,
With every eve deeper and tenderer still; 10
He might not in house, field, or garden stir,
But her full shape would all his seeing fill;
And his continual voice was pleasanter
To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.
He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch,
Before the door had given her to his eyes;
And from her chamber-window he would catch
Her beauty farther than the falcon spies; 20
And constant as her vespers would he watch,
Because her face was turn’d to the same skies;
And with sick longing all the night outwear,
To hear her morning-step upon the stair.
A whole long month of May in this sad plight
Made their cheeks paler by the break of June:
“To-morrow will I bow to my delight,
To-morrow will I ask my lady’s boon.”—
“O may I never see another night,
Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love’s tune.”— 30
So spake they to their pillows; but, alas,
Honeyless days and days did he let pass;
Until sweet Isabella’s untouch’d cheek
Fell sick within the rose’s just domain,
Fell thin as a young mother’s, who doth seek
By every lull to cool her infant’s pain:
“How ill she is,” said he, “I may not speak,
And yet I will, and tell my love all plain:
If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears,
And at the least ‘twill startle off her cares.” 40
So said he one fair morning, and all day
His heart beat awfully against his side;
And to his heart he inwardly did pray
For power to speak; but still the ruddy tide
Stifled his voice, and puls’d resolve away—
Fever’d his high conceit of such a bride,
Yet brought him to the meekness of a child:
Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!
So once more he had wak’d and anguished
A dreary night of love and misery, 50
If Isabel’s quick eye had not been wed
To every symbol on his forehead high;
She saw it waxing very pale and dead,
And straight all flush’d; so, lisped tenderly,
“Lorenzo!”—here she ceas’d her timid quest,
But in her tone and look he read the rest.
“O Isabella, I can half perceive
That I may speak my grief into thine ear;
If thou didst ever any thing believe,
Believe how I love thee, believe how near 60
My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve
Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear
Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live
Another night, and not my passion shrive.
“Love! thou art leading me from wintry cold,
Lady! thou leadest me to summer clime,
And I must taste the blossoms that unfold
In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time.”
So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold,
And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme: 70
Great bliss was with them, and great happiness
Grew, like a lusty flower in June’s caress.
Parting they seem’d to tread upon the air,
Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart
Only to meet again more close, and share
The inward fragrance of each other’s heart.
She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair
Sang, of delicious love and honey’d dart;
He with light steps went up a western hill,
And bade the sun farewell, and joy’d his fill. 80
All close they met again, before the dusk
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,
All close they met, all eyes, before the dusk
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,
Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk,
Unknown of any, free from whispering tale.
Ah! better had it been for ever so,
Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe.
Were they unhappy then?—It cannot be—
Too many tears for lovers have been shed, 90
Too many sighs give we to them in fee,
Too much of pity after they are dead,
Too many doleful stories do we see,
Whose matter in bright gold were best be read;
Except in such a page where Theseus’ spouse
Over the pathless waves towards him bows.
But, for the general award of love,
The little sweet doth kill much bitterness;
Though Dido silent is in under-grove,
And Isabella’s was a great distress, 100
Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove
Was not embalm’d, this truth is not the less—
Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers,
Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt,
Enriched from ancestral merchandize,
And for them many a weary hand did swelt
In torched mines and noisy factories,
And many once proud-quiver’d loins did melt
In blood from stinging whip;—with hollow eyes 110
Many all day in dazzling river stood,
To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood.
For them the Ceylon diver held his breath,
And went all naked to the hungry shark;
For them his ears gush’d blood; for them in death
The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark
Lay full of darts; for them alone did seethe
A thousand men in troubles wide and dark:
Half-ignorant, they turn’d an easy wheel,
That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel. 120
Why were they proud? Because their marble founts
Gush’d with more pride than do a wretch’s tears?—
Why were they proud? Because fair orange-mounts
Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs?—
Why were they proud? Because red-lin’d accounts
Were richer than the songs of Grecian years?—
Why were they proud? again we ask aloud,
Why in the name of Glory were they proud?
Yet were these Florentines as self-retired
In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, 130
As two close Hebrews in that land inspired,
Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies;
The hawks of ship-mast forests—the untired
And pannier’d mules for ducats and old lies—
Quick cat’s-paws on the generous stray-away,—
Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay.
How was it these same ledger-men could spy
Fair Isabella in her downy nest?
How could they find out in Lorenzo’s eye
A straying from his toil? Hot Egypt’s pest 140
Into their vision covetous and sly!
How could these money-bags see east and west?—
Yet so they did—and every dealer fair
Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare.
O eloquent and famed Boccaccio!
Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon;
And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow,
And of thy roses amorous of the moon,
And of thy lilies, that do paler grow
Now they can no more hear thy ghittern’s tune, 150
For venturing syllables that ill beseem
The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme.
Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale
Shall move on soberly, as it is meet;
There is no other crime, no mad assail
To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet:
But it is done—succeed the verse or fail—
To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet;
To stead thee as a verse in English tongue,
An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. 160
These brethren having found by many signs
What love Lorenzo for their sister had,
And how she lov’d him too, each unconfines
His bitter thoughts to other, well nigh mad
That he, the servant of their trade designs,
Should in their sister’s love be blithe and glad,
When ’twas their plan to coax her by degrees
To some high noble and his olive-trees.
And many a jealous conference had they,
And many times they bit their lips alone, 170
Before they fix’d upon a surest way
To make the youngster for his crime atone;
And at the last, these men of cruel clay
Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone;
For they resolved in some forest dim
To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him.
So on a pleasant morning, as he leant
Into the sun-rise, o’er the balustrade
Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent
Their footing through the dews; and to him said, 180
“You seem there in the quiet of content,
Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade
Calm speculation; but if you are wise,
Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies.
“To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount
To spur three leagues towards the Apennine;
Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count
His dewy rosary on the eglantine.”
Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont,
Bow’d a fair greeting to these serpents’ whine; 190
And went in haste, to get in readiness,
With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman’s dress.
And as he to the court-yard pass’d along,
Each third step did he pause, and listen’d oft
If he could hear his lady’s matin-song,
Or the light whisper of her footstep soft;
And as he thus over his passion hung,
He heard a laugh full musical aloft;
When, looking up, he saw her features bright
Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight. 200
“Love, Isabel!” said he, “I was in pain
Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow
Ah! what if I should lose thee, when so fain
I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow
Of a poor three hours’ absence? but we’ll gain
Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow.
Goodbye! I’ll soon be back.”—”Goodbye!” said she:—
And as he went she chanted merrily.
So the two brothers and their murder’d man
Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno’s stream 210
Gurgles through straiten’d banks, and still doth fan
Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream
Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan
The brothers’ faces in the ford did seem,
Lorenzo’s flush with love.—They pass’d the water
Into a forest quiet for the slaughter.
There was Lorenzo slain and buried in,
There in that forest did his great love cease;
Ah! when a soul doth thus its freedom win,
It aches in loneliness—is ill at peace 220
As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin:
They dipp’d their swords in the water, and did tease
Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur,
Each richer by his being a murderer.
They told their sister how, with sudden speed,
Lorenzo had ta’en ship for foreign lands,
Because of some great urgency and need
In their affairs, requiring trusty hands.
Poor Girl! put on thy stifling widow’s weed,
And ‘scape at once from Hope’s accursed bands; 230
To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow,
And the next day will be a day of sorrow.
She weeps alone for pleasures not to be;
Sorely she wept until the night came on,
And then, instead of love, O misery!
She brooded o’er the luxury alone:
His image in the dusk she seem’d to see,
And to the silence made a gentle moan,
Spreading her perfect arms upon the air,
And on her couch low murmuring “Where? O where?” 240
But Selfishness, Love’s cousin, held not long
Its fiery vigil in her single breast;
She fretted for the golden hour, and hung
Upon the time with feverish unrest—
Not long—for soon into her heart a throng
Of higher occupants, a richer zest,
Came tragic; passion not to be subdued,
And sorrow for her love in travels rude.
In the mid days of autumn, on their eves
The breath of Winter comes from far away, 250
And the sick west continually bereaves
Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay
Of death among the bushes and the leaves,
To make all bare before he dares to stray
From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel
By gradual decay from beauty fell,
Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes
She ask’d her brothers, with an eye all pale,
Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes
Could keep him off so long? They spake a tale 260
Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes
Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom’s vale;
And every night in dreams they groan’d aloud,
To see their sister in her snowy shroud.
And she had died in drowsy ignorance,
But for a thing more deadly dark than all;
It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance,
Which saves a sick man from the feather’d pall
For some few gasping moments; like a lance,
Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall 270
With cruel pierce, and bringing him again
Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain.
It was a vision.—In the drowsy gloom,
The dull of midnight, at her couch’s foot
Lorenzo stood, and wept: the forest tomb
Had marr’d his glossy hair which once could shoot
Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom
Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute
From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears
Had made a miry channel for his tears. 280
Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake;
For there was striving, in its piteous tongue,
To speak as when on earth it was awake,
And Isabella on its music hung:
Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake,
As in a palsied Druid’s harp unstrung;
And through it moan’d a ghostly under-song,
Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among.
Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright
With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof 290
From the poor girl by magic of their light,
The while it did unthread the horrid woof
Of the late darken’d time,—the murderous spite
Of pride and avarice,—the dark pine roof
In the forest,—and the sodden turfed dell,
Where, without any word, from stabs he fell.
Saying moreover, “Isabel, my sweet!
Red whortle-berries droop above my head,
And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet;
Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed 300
Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheep-fold bleat
Comes from beyond the river to my bed:
Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom,
And it shall comfort me within the tomb.
“I am a shadow now, alas! alas!
Upon the skirts of human-nature dwelling
Alone: I chant alone the holy mass,
While little sounds of life are round me knelling,
And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass,
And many a chapel bell the hour is telling, 310
Paining me through: those sounds grow strange to me,
And thou art distant in Humanity.
“I know what was, I feel full well what is,
And I should rage, if spirits could go mad;
Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss,
That paleness warms my grave, as though I had
A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss
To be my spouse: thy paleness makes me glad;
Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel
A greater love through all my essence steal.” 320
The Spirit mourn’d “Adieu!”—dissolv’d, and left
The atom darkness in a slow turmoil;
As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft,
Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil,
We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft,
And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil:
It made sad Isabella’s eyelids ache,
And in the dawn she started up awake;
“Ha! ha!” said she, “I knew not this hard life,
I thought the worst was simple misery; 330
I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife
Portion’d us—happy days, or else to die;
But there is crime—a brother’s bloody knife!
Sweet Spirit, thou hast school’d my infancy:
I’ll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes,
And greet thee morn and even in the skies.”
When the full morning came, she had devised
How she might secret to the forest hie;
How she might find the clay, so dearly prized,
And sing to it one latest lullaby; 340
How her short absence might be unsurmised,
While she the inmost of the dream would try.
Resolv’d, she took with her an aged nurse,
And went into that dismal forest-hearse.
See, as they creep along the river side,
How she doth whisper to that aged Dame,
And, after looking round the champaign wide,
Shows her a knife.—”What feverous hectic flame
Burns in thee, child?—What good can thee betide,
That thou should’st smile again?”—The evening came, 350
And they had found Lorenzo’s earthy bed;
The flint was there, the berries at his head.
Who hath not loiter’d in a green church-yard,
And let his spirit, like a demon-mole,
Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard,
To see scull, coffin’d bones, and funeral stole;
Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr’d,
And filling it once more with human soul?
Ah! this is holiday to what was felt
When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. 360
She gaz’d into the fresh-thrown mould, as though
One glance did fully all its secrets tell;
Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know
Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well;
Upon the murderous spot she seem’d to grow,
Like to a native lily of the dell:
Then with her knife, all sudden, she began
To dig more fervently than misers can.
Soon she turn’d up a soiled glove, whereon
Her silk had play’d in purple phantasies, 370
She kiss’d it with a lip more chill than stone,
And put it in her bosom, where it dries
And freezes utterly unto the bone
Those dainties made to still an infant’s cries:
Then ‘gan she work again; nor stay’d her care,
But to throw back at times her veiling hair.
That old nurse stood beside her wondering,
Until her heart felt pity to the core
At sight of such a dismal labouring,
And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, 380
And put her lean hands to the horrid thing:
Three hours they labour’d at this travail sore;
At last they felt the kernel of the grave,
And Isabella did not stamp and rave.
Ah! wherefore all this wormy circumstance?
Why linger at the yawning tomb so long?
O for the gentleness of old Romance,
The simple plaining of a minstrel’s song!
Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance,
For here, in truth, it doth not well belong 390
To speak:—O turn thee to the very tale,
And taste the music of that vision pale.
With duller steel than the Perséan sword
They cut away no formless monster’s head,
But one, whose gentleness did well accord
With death, as life. The ancient harps have said,
Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord:
If Love impersonate was ever dead,
Pale Isabella kiss’d it, and low moan’d.
’Twas love; cold,—dead indeed, but not dethroned. 400
In anxious secrecy they took it home,
And then the prize was all for Isabel:
She calm’d its wild hair with a golden comb,
And all around each eye’s sepulchral cell
Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared loam
With tears, as chilly as a dripping well,
She drench’d away:—and still she comb’d, and kept
Sighing all day—and still she kiss’d, and wept.
Then in a silken scarf,—sweet with the dews
Of precious flowers pluck’d in Araby, 410
And divine liquids come with odorous ooze
Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully,—
She wrapp’d it up; and for its tomb did choose
A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by,
And cover’d it with mould, and o’er it set
Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet.
And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun,
And she forgot the blue above the trees,
And she forgot the dells where waters run,
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze; 420
She had no knowledge when the day was done,
And the new morn she saw not: but in peace
Hung over her sweet Basil evermore,
And moisten’d it with tears unto the core.
And so she ever fed it with thin tears,
Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew,
So that it smelt more balmy than its peers
Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew
Nurture besides, and life, from human fears,
From the fast mouldering head there shut from view: 430
So that the jewel, safely casketed,
Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread.
O Melancholy, linger here awhile!
O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!
O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle,
Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us—O sigh!
Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile;
Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily,
And make a pale light in your cypress glooms,
Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. 440
Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe,
From the deep throat of sad Melpomene!
Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go,
And touch the strings into a mystery;
Sound mournfully upon the winds and low;
For simple Isabel is soon to be
Among the dead: She withers, like a palm
Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm.
O leave the palm to wither by itself;
Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour!— 450
It may not be—those Baälites of pelf,
Her brethren, noted the continual shower
From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf,
Among her kindred, wonder’d that such dower
Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside
By one mark’d out to be a Noble’s bride.
And, furthermore, her brethren wonder’d much
Why she sat drooping by the Basil green,
And why it flourish’d, as by magic touch;
Greatly they wonder’d what the thing might mean: 460
They could not surely give belief, that such
A very nothing would have power to wean
Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay,
And even remembrance of her love’s delay.
Therefore they watch’d a time when they might sift
This hidden whim; and long they watch’d in vain;
For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift,
And seldom felt she any hunger-pain;
And when she left, she hurried back, as swift
As bird on wing to breast its eggs again; 470
And, patient, as a hen-bird, sat her there
Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair.
Yet they contriv’d to steal the Basil-pot,
And to examine it in secret place:
The thing was vile with green and livid spot,
And yet they knew it was Lorenzo’s face:
The guerdon of their murder they had got,
And so left Florence in a moment’s space,
Never to turn again.—Away they went,
With blood upon their heads, to banishment. 480
O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away!
O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!
O Echo, Echo, on some other day,
From isles Lethean, sigh to us—O sigh!
Spirits of grief, sing not your “Well-a-way!”
For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die;
Will die a death too lone and incomplete,
Now they have ta’en away her Basil sweet.
Piteous she look’d on dead and senseless things,
Asking for her lost Basil amorously; 490
And with melodious chuckle in the strings
Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry
After the Pilgrim in his wanderings,
To ask him where her Basil was; and why
’Twas hid from her: “For cruel ’tis,” said she,
“To steal my Basil-pot away from me.”
And so she pined, and so she died forlorn,
Imploring for her Basil to the last.
No heart was there in Florence but did mourn
In pity of her love, so overcast. 500
And a sad ditty of this story born
From mouth to mouth through all the country pass’d:
Still is the burthen sung—”O cruelty,
To steal my Basil-pot away from me!”
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host’s Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood 10
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day
Mine host’s sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer’s old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old-sign
Sipping beverage divine, 20
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Anime di Poeti morti e andati,
quale Elisio avete conosciuto,
quale lieto campo o antro muscoso
più eletto della Taverna della Sirena?
Avete tracannato bevanda più fine
del vino di Canarie del mio oste?
O sono i frutti del Paradiso
più dolci di quei ghiotti pasticci
di cervo? Oh cibo generoso!
Imbandito come se il prode Robin Hood 10
volesse, con la sua fanciulla Marian,
cenare e trincare da corno e boccale.
Ho sentito dire che un giorno
l’insegna del mio oste volò via,
nessuno seppe dove, finché
la vecchia penna d’un astrologo
affidò a una cartapecora la storia,
disse d’avervi visti nella vostra gloria,
sotto una nuova vecchia insegna
a sorseggiare bevanda divina, 20
e a brindare con schiocco contento
alla Sirena dello Zodiaco.
Anime di Poeti morti e andati,
quale Elisio avete conosciuto,
quale lieto campo o antro muscoso
più eletto della Taverna della Sirena?
TO A FRIEND.
No! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter’s shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest’s whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 10
No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz’d to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon, 20
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent; 30
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the “grenè shawe;”
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have 40
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall’n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her—strange! that honey
Can’t be got without hard money!
So it is: yet let us sing,
Honour to the old bow-string! 50
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan! 60
Though their days have hurried by
Let us two a burden try.
A UN AMICO.
No! quei giorni sono andati via,
e le loro ore sono vecchie e grigie,
e i loro minuti tutti sepolti
sotto il drappo funebre calpestato
delle foglie di molti anni:
molte volte le cesoie dell’inverno,
il Nord gelato e l’Est che agghiaccia,
hanno suonato tempeste al festino
dei velli sussurranti della foresta,
da che gli uomini ignoravano affitti e contratti. 10
No, il corno non suona più,
né più l’arco che vibra;
muto è lo squillo d’avorio
oltre la brughiera e su per il colle;
non c’è riso in mezzo al bosco,
dove l’Eco solitaria ne rende la metà
a qualche tapino, stupito d’udire
motteggi, nel fondo della foresta tetra.
Nel più bel tempo di giugno
puoi andare, con sole o luna, 20
o le sette stelle a farti lume,
o il raggio polare a dirigerti;
ma non vedrai mai
il piccolo John, o il prode Robin;
mai nessuno, di tutta la brigata,
che tamburelli su un boccale vuoto
qualche vecchia canzone di caccia, mentre
s’allieta il suo verde cammino
verso la bella ostessa Allegria,
giù lungo il Trent dei pascoli; 30
ché lasciò il racconto gaio,
messaggero, per la birra speziata.
Andato, il gaio chiasso della morris;
andato, il canto di Gamelyn;
andato, il fuorilegge dalla cintura dura
che oziava nel “grenè shawe”;
tutti sono andati via e passati!
E se Robin fosse gettato
d’un tratto fuori dalla sua tomba erbosa,
e se Marian riavesse 40
ancora una volta i suoi giorni di foresta,
lei piangerebbe, e lui impazzirebbe:
giurerebbe che tutte le sue querce,
cadute sotto i colpi dei cantieri,
sono marcite sui mari salsi;
lei piangerebbe che le sue api selvatiche
non le cantano più—strano! che il miele
non si possa avere senza danaro sonante!
Così è: eppure cantiamo,
onore alla vecchia corda dell’arco! 50
Onore al corno da caccia!
Onore ai boschi non recisi!
Onore al verde di Lincoln!
Onore all’arciere acuto!
Onore al gagliardo piccolo John,
e al cavallo che cavalcava!
Onore al prode Robin Hood,
che dorme nel sottobosco!
Onore alla fanciulla Marian,
e a tutta la brigata di Sherwood! 60
Benché i loro giorni siano fuggiti,
proviamo noi due un ritornello.
Under the flag
Of each his faction, they to battle bring
Their embryon atoms.
Milton
Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow,
Lethe’s weed and Hermes’ feather;
Come today, and come tomorrow,
I do love you both together!
I love to mark sad faces in fair weather;
And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder;
Fair and foul I love together.
Meadows sweet where flames are under.
And a giggle at a wonder;
Visage sage at pantomime;
Funeral, and steeple-chime;
Infant playing with a skull;
Morning fair, and shipwreck’d hull;
Nightshade with the woodbine kissing;
Serpents in red roses hissing;
Cleopatra regal-dress’d
With the aspic at her breast;
Dancing music, music sad,
Both together, sane and mad;
Muses bright and muses pale;
Sombre Saturn, Momus hale; -
Laugh and sigh, and laugh again;
Oh the sweetness of the pain!
Muses bright, and muses pale.
Bare your faces of the veil;
Let me see; and let me write
Of the day, and of the night -
Both together: - let me slake
All my thirst for sweet hearache!
Let my bower be of yew,
Interwreath’d with myrtles new;
Pines and lime-trees full in bloom,
And my couch a low grass-tomb.
Sotto il vessillo
della propria fazione, recano in battaglia
i loro atomi embrionali.
Milton
Benvenuta gioia, e benvenuto dolore,
erba del Lete e piuma d’Ermes;
venite oggi, e venite domani,
vi amo tutti e due insieme!
Amo scorgere visi tristi col bel tempo;
e udire un riso gaio in mezzo al tuono;
il bello e il torbido amo insieme.
Prati dolci con le fiamme sotto,
e una risatina davanti a un prodigio;
volto grave alla pantomima;
funerale, e scampanio di campanile;
bimbo che gioca con un teschio;
mattino sereno, e scafo naufragato;
belladonna che bacia il caprifoglio;
serpi che sibilano tra rose rosse;
Cleopatra in veste regale
con l’aspide al seno;
musica di danza, musica triste,
tutte e due insieme, savia e folle;
Muse lucenti e Muse pallide;
Saturno fosco, Momo gagliardo; -
Ridi e sospira, e ridi ancora;
oh la dolcezza del dolore!
Muse lucenti, e Muse pallide.
Scoprite i vostri volti dal velo;
fatemi vedere; e fatemi scrivere
del giorno, e della notte -
tutti e due insieme: - fatemi spegnere
tutta la mia sete di dolce pena del cuore!
Sia il mio pergolato di tasso,
intrecciato di mirti nuovi;
pini e tigli in piena fioritura,
e il mio giaciglio una bassa tomba d’erba.
Cat! who hast pass’d thy grand climacteric,
How many mice and rats hast in thy days
Destroy’d? - How many tit bits stolen? Gaze
With those bright languid segments green, and prick
Those velvet ears - but pr’ythee do not stick
Thy latent talons in me - and upraise
Thy gentle mew - and tell me all thy frays
Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick.
Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists -
For all the wheezy asthma, - and for all
10
Thy tail’s tip is nick’d off - and though the fists
Of many a maid have given thee many a maul,
Still is that fur as soft as when the lists
In youth thou enter’dst on glass bottled wall.
Gatto! che hai varcato il tuo grande climaterio,
quanti topi e quanti ratti hai, nei tuoi giorni,
distrutto? - Quanti bocconi rubato? Fissami
con quei lucidi languidi spicchi verdi, e drizza
quelle orecchie di velluto - ma ti prego non piantarmi
addosso i tuoi artigli nascosti - e leva
il tuo miagolio gentile - e dimmi tutte le tue zuffe
di pesci e di topi, e di ratti e di tenero pulcino.
No, non abbassare gli occhi, né leccarti i polsi delicati -
ché, malgrado l’asma sibilante, - e malgrado
10
la punta della coda ti sia stata mozzata - e benché i pugni
di più d’una fantesca t’abbiano dato più d’una batosta,
ancora quel pelo è soffice come quando le lizze,
in gioventù, affrontavi sul muro irto di cocci di bottiglia.
I
The sun, with his great eye,
Sees not so much as I;
And the moon, all silver-proud,
Might as well be in a cloud.
II
And O the spring - the spring!
I lead the life of a king!
Couch’d in the teeming grass,
I spy each pretty lass.
III
I look where no one dares,
And I stare where no one stares,
And when the night is nigh,
Lambs bleat my lullaby.
I
Il sole, col suo grande occhio,
non vede tanto quanto io;
e la luna, tutta superba d’argento,
potrebbe ben stare in una nuvola.
II
E oh la primavera - la primavera!
faccio la vita d’un re!
Sdraiata nell’erba brulicante,
spio ogni bella ragazza.
III
Guardo dove nessuno osa,
e fisso dove nessuno fissa,
e quando la notte s’appressa,
gli agnelli belano la mia ninnananna.
Written on a blank page in Beaumont and Fletcher’s Works, between
‘Cupid’s Revenge’ and ‘The Two Noble Kinsmen’
I
Spirit here that reignest!
Spirit here that painest!
Spirit here that burnest!
Spirit here that mournest!
Spirit, I bow
My forehead low,
Enshaded with thy pinions.
Spirit, I look
All passion-struck
Into thy pale dominions.
II
Spirit here that laughest!
Spirit here that quaffest!
Spirit here that dancest!
Noble soul that prancest!
Spirit, with thee
I join in the glee
A-nudging the elbow of Momus.
Spirit, I flush
With a Bacchanal blush
Just fresh from the Banquet of Comus.
Scritto su una pagina bianca nelle Opere di Beaumont e Fletcher, tra
‘Cupid’s Revenge’ e ‘The Two Noble Kinsmen’
I
Spirito che qui regni!
Spirito che qui addolori!
Spirito che qui ardi!
Spirito che qui piangi!
Spirito, io chino
in basso la fronte,
ombrata dalle tue penne.
Spirito, io guardo
tutto colpito di passione
dentro i tuoi pallidi domini.
II
Spirito che qui ridi!
Spirito che qui tracanni!
Spirito che qui danzi!
Nobile anima che caracolli!
Spirito, con te
mi unisco alla baldoria
dando di gomito a Momo.
Spirito, avvampo
d’un rossore baccanale
appena fresco dal Banchetto di Comus.
From a Letter to Tom Keats
Ah! ken ye what I met the day
Out oure the mountains
A coming down by craggies grey
An mossie fountains -
Ah goud hair’d Marie yeve I pray
Ane minute’s guessing -
For that I met upon the way
Is past expressing.
As I stood where a rocky brig
A torrent crosses
10
I spied upon a misty rig
A troup o’ horses -
And as they trotted down the glen
I sped to meet them
To see if I might know the men
To stop and greet them.
First Willie on his sleek mare came
At canting gallop
His long hair rustled like a flame
On board a shallop.
20
Then came his brother Rab and then
Young Peggy’s mither
And Peggy too - adown the glen
They went together -
I saw her wrappit in her hood
Fra wind and raining -
Her cheek was flush wi’ timid blood
Twixt growth and waning -
She turn’d her dazed head full oft
For there her brithers
30
Came riding with her bridegroom soft
And mony ithers.
Young Tam came up an’ eyed me quick
With reddened cheek -
Braw Tam was daffed’’ like a chick -
He coud na speak -
Ah Marie they are all gane hame
Through blustering weather
An’ every heart is full on flame
A’ light as feather.
40
Ah! Marie they are all gone hame
Fra happy wedding,
Whilst I - Ah is it not a shame?
Sad tears am shedding.
Da una lettera a Tom Keats
Ah! sai tu che cosa ho incontrato oggi
là su per i monti
scendendo giù per rocce grigie
e fonti muscose -
Ah Marie dai capelli d’oro, ti prego,
indovina un minuto -
ché quel che ho incontrato per via
non si può dire.
Mentre stavo dove un ponte di roccia
scavalca un torrente
10
scorsi su un crinale nebbioso
una truppa di cavalli -
e mentre trottavano giù per la valle
corsi a incontrarli
per vedere se conoscevo quegli uomini
e fermarli e salutarli.
Primo venne Willie sulla sua cavalla lustra
a galoppo sghembo,
i lunghi capelli gli frusciavano come fiamma
a bordo d’una scialuppa.
20
Poi venne suo fratello Rab e poi
la madre della giovane Peggy
e Peggy pure - giù per la valle
se ne andavano insieme -
La vidi ravvolta nel cappuccio
contro il vento e la pioggia -
la guancia le avvampava di timido sangue
tra il crescere e lo svanire -
Voltava spesso il capo stordito
ché là i suoi fratelli
30
venivano a cavallo col suo mite sposo
e molti altri ancora.
Il giovane Tam s’accostò e mi squadrò svelto
con la guancia arrossata -
il bel Tam era intontito come un pulcino -
non riusciva a parlare -
Ah Marie, se ne sono tornati tutti a casa
per un tempo burrascoso
e ogni cuore è tutto in fiamme
e lieve come piuma.
40
Ah! Marie, se ne sono tornati tutti a casa
da un lieto sposalizio,
mentre io - Ah non è una vergogna? -
verso tristi lacrime.
From a Letter to George Keats and His Wife
When they were come into the Faery’s Court They rang - no one at home - all gone to sport And dance and kiss and love as faeries do For Fa[e]ries be as humans, lovers true - Amid the woods they were, so lone and wild, Where even the Robin feels himself exil’d And where the very brooks as if afraid Hurry along to some less magic shade. ‘No one at home!’ the fretful princess cried ‘And all for nothing such a dre[a]ry ride, 10 And all for nothing my new diamond cross, No one to see my Persian feathers toss, No one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my Fool, Or how I pace my Otaheitan mule. Ape, Dwarf and Fool, why stand you gaping there?
Burst the door open, quick - or I declare I’ll switch you soundly and in pieces tear.’ The dwarf began to tremble and the ape Star’d at the fool, the fool was all agape, The Princess grasp’d her switch, but just in time 20 The dwarf with piteous face began to rhyme. ‘O mighty Princess did you ne’er hear tell What your poor servants know but too too well? Know you the three great crimes in faery land? The first, alas! poor Dwarf, I understand - I made a whipstock of a faery’s wand - The next is snoring in their company - The next, the last, the direst of the three Is making free when they are not at home. I was a Prince - a baby prince - my doom 30 You see, I made a whipstock of a wand - My top has henceforth slept in faery land. He was a Prince, the Fool, a grown up Prince, But he has never been a King’s son since He fell a-snoring at a faery Ball - Your poor Ape was a prince and he, poor thing, Picklock’d a faery’s boudour - now no king, But ape - so pray your highness stay awhile; ’Tis sooth indeed, we know it to our sorrow - Persist and you may be an ape tomorrow - 40 While the Dwarf spake the Princess all for spite Peal’d [sic] the brown hazel twig to lily white, Clench’d her small teeth, and held her lips apart, Try’d to look unconcem’d with beating heart. They saw her highness had made up her mind And quaver’d like the reeds before the wind, And they had had it, but, O happy chance! The Ape for very fear began to dance And grin’d as all his ugliness did ache - She staid her vixen fingers for his sake, 50 He was so very ugly: then she took Her pocket glass mirror and began to look First at herself and [then] at him and then She smil’d at her own beauteous face again. Yet for all this - for all her pretty face She took it in her head to see the place. Women gain little from experience Either in Lovers, husbands or expense. The more the beauty, the more fortune too, Beauty before the wide world never knew. So each fair reasons - tho’ it oft miscarries. 60 She thought her pretty face would please the faeries. ‘My darling Ape I won’t whip you today - Give me the Picklock, sirrah, and go play.’ They all three wept - but counsel was as vain As crying cup biddy”‘ to drops of rain. Yet lingeringly did the sad Ape forth draw The Picklock from the Pocket in his Jaw. The Princess took it and dismounting straight Trip’d in blue silver’d slippers to the gate 70 And touch’d the wards, the door full courteously Opened - she enter’d with her servants three. Again it clos’d and there was nothing seen But the Mule grazing on the herbage green.
End of Canto xii
CANTO THE XIII
The Mule no sooner saw himself alone Than he prick’d up his ears - and said ‘well done! At least, unhappy Prince, I may be free - No more a Princess shall side-saddle me. O O King of Othaietè - tho’ a Mule “Aye every inch a King” - tho’ “Fortune’s fool” 80 Well done - for by what Mr Dwarfy said I I would not give a sixpence for her head.’ Even as he spake he trotted in high glee To the knotty side of an old pollard tree And rub [‘d] his sides against the mossed bark Till his girths burst and left him naked stark Except his bridle - how get rid of that, Buckled and tied with many a twist and plait? At last it struck him to pretend to sleep And then the thievish monkeys down would creep 90 And filch the unpleasant trammels quite away. No sooner thought of than adown he lay, Sham’d a good snore - the monkey-men descended And whom they thought to injure they befriended. They hung his bridle on a topmost bough And of[f] he went, run, trot, or anyhow - Brown is gone to bed - and I am tired of rhyming
From a Letter to His Sister
Two or three posies
With two or three simples -
Two or three noses
With two or three pimples -
Two or three wise men
And two or three ninny’s -
Two or three purses
And two or three guineas -
Two or three raps
At two or three doors - 10
Two or three naps
Of two or three hours -
Two or three cats
And two or three mice
Two or three sprats
At a very great price -
Two or three sandies
And two or three tabbies -
Two or three dandies
And two Mrs — mum! 20
Two or three smiles
And two or three frowns -
Two or three miles
To two or three towns -
Two or three pegs
For two or three bonnets -
Two or three dove eggs
To hatch into sonnets.
Da una lettera alla sorella
Due o tre mazzolini
con due o tre semplici -
due o tre nasini
con due o tre foruncoli -
Due o tre sapientoni
e due o tre bietoloni -
due o tre borsellini
e due o tre zecchini -
Due o tre bussate
a due o tre porte - 10
due o tre dormitine
di due o tre ore -
Due o tre gatti
e due o tre sorci
due o tre spratti
a prezzi feroci -
Due o tre biondini
e due o tre soriani -
due o tre damerini
e due Signore — zitto! 20
Due o tre sorrisi
e due o tre musi lunghi -
due o tre miglia
verso due o tre borghi -
Due o tre pioli
per due o tre berretti -
due o tre uova di colomba
da schiudere in sonetti.
Salamander, Zephyr, Dusketha and Breama
SALAMANDER Happy, happy glowing fire!
ZEPHYR Fragrant air! delicious light!
DUSKETHA Let me to my glooms retire!
BREAMA I to green-weed rivers bright!
SALAMANDER Happy, happy glowing fire!
Dazzling bowers of soft retire,
Ever let my nourish’d wing,
Like a bat’s, still wandering.
Faintless fan your fiery spaces,
Spirit sole in deadly places.
In unhaunted roar and blaze,
Open eyes that never daze,
Let me see the myriad shapes
Of men, and beasts, and fish, and apes,
Portray’d in many a fiery den,
And wrought by spumy bitumen.
On the deep intenser roof,
Arched every way aloof,
Let me breathe upon their skies,
And anger their live tapestries;
Free from cold, and every care,
Of chilly rain, and shivering air.
ZEPHYR Spirit of Fire - away! away!
Or your very roundelay
Will sear my plumage newly budded
From its quilled sheath, all studded
With the selfsame dews that fell
On the May-grown Asphodel.
Spirit of Fire - away! away!
BREAMA Spirit of Fire - away! away!
Zephyr, blue-eyed Faery, turn,
And see my cool sedge-bury’d urn,
Where it rests its mossy brim
‘Mid water-mint and cresses dim;
And the flowers, in sweet troubles,
Lift their eyes above the bubbles,
Like our Queen, when she would please
To sleep, and Oberon will tease.
Love me, blue-eyed Faery, true!
Soothly I am sick for you.
ZEPHYR Gentle Breama! by the first
Violet young nature nurst,
I will bathe myself with thee,
So you sometimes follow me
To my home, far, far, in west,
Beyond the nimble-wheeled quest
Of the golden-browed sun:
Come with me, o’er tops of trees.
To my fragrant palaces,
Where they ever floating are
Beneath the cherish of a star
Call’d Vesper, who with silver veil
Ever hides his brilliance pale,
Ever gently-drows’d doth keep
Twilight for the Fayes to sleep.
Fear not that your watery hair
Will thirst in drouthy ringlets there;
Clouds of stored summer rains
Thou shalt taste, before the stains
Of the mountain soil they take,
And too unlucent for thee make.
I love thee, crystal Faery, true!
Sooth I am as sick for you!
SALAMANDER Out, ye aguish Faeries, out!
Chilly lovers, what a rout
Keep ye with your frozen breath.
Colder than the mortal death.
Adder-eyed Dusketha, speak,
Shall we leave these, and go seek
In the earth’s wide entrails old
Couches warm as their’s are cold?
O for a fiery gloom and thee,
Dusketha, so enchantingly
Freckle-wing’d and lizard-sided!
DUSKETHA By thee, Sprite, will I be guided!
I care not for cold or heat;
Frost and flame, or sparks, or sleet,
To my essence are the same; -
But I honour more the flame.
Sprite of Fire, I follow thee
Wheresoever it may be,
To the torrid spouts and fountains,
Underneath earth-quaked mountains;
Or, at thy supreme desire,
Touch the very pulse of fire
With my bare unlidded eyes.
SALAMANDER Sweet Dusketha! paradise!
Off, ye icy Spirits, fly!
Frosty creatures of the sky!
DUSKETHA Breathe upon them, fiery sprite!
ZEPHYR AND DUSKETHA Away! away to our delight!
SALAMANDER Go, feed on icicles, while we
Bedded in tongue-flames will be.
DUSKETHA Lead me to those feverous glooms,
Sprite of Fire!
BREAMA Me to the blooms,
Blue-eyed Zephyr, of those flowers
Far in the west where the May-cloud lowers:
And the beams of still Vesper, when winds are all wist,
Are shed thro’ the rain and the milder mist,
And twilight your floating bowers.
Salamander, Zephyr, Dusketha e Breama
SALAMANDER Felice, felice fuoco ardente!
ZEPHYR Aria fragrante! luce deliziosa!
DUSKETHA Ch’io mi ritiri nelle mie tenebre!
BREAMA Io ai fiumi lucenti d’alghe verdi!
SALAMANDER Felice, felice fuoco ardente!
Abbaglianti pergole di molle ritiro,
sempre lasciate che la mia ala nutrita,
come quella d’un pipistrello, sempre errante,
senza stancarsi ventoli i vostri spazi di fuoco,
spirito solo in luoghi mortali.
Nel rombo e nella vampa non frequentati,
con occhi aperti che mai s’abbagliano,
lasciate ch’io veda le miriadi di forme
d’uomini, e bestie, e pesci, e scimmie,
raffigurate in più d’un antro di fuoco,
e foggiate dal bitume schiumoso.
Sulla volta profonda e più intensa,
inarcata lontana in ogni senso,
lasciate ch’io respiri sui loro cieli,
e adiri i loro vivi arazzi;
libero dal freddo, e da ogni pena
di pioggia gelida e d’aria tremante.
ZEPHYR Spirito del Fuoco - via! via!
o proprio il tuo girotondo
brucerà il mio piumaggio appena sbocciato
dalla sua guaina di calamo, tutto tempestato
delle stesse rugiade che caddero
sull’Asfodelo cresciuto in maggio.
Spirito del Fuoco - via! via!
BREAMA Spirito del Fuoco - via! via!
Zephyr, Fata dagli occhi azzurri, volgiti,
e guarda la mia fresca urna sepolta nei giunchi,
dove posa il suo orlo muscoso
tra la menta d’acqua e i crescioni oscuri;
e i fiori, in dolci turbamenti,
levano gli occhi sopra le bolle,
come la nostra Regina, quando vorrebbe
dormire, e Oberon la stuzzica.
Amami, Fata dagli occhi azzurri, davvero!
In verità mi struggo per te.
ZEPHYR Gentile Breama! per la prima
Viola che la giovane natura nutrì,
mi bagnerò insieme a te,
purché tu talvolta mi segua
alla mia casa, lontano, lontano, a occidente,
oltre l’agile corsa su ruote
del sole dalla fronte d’oro:
Vieni con me, sopra le cime degli alberi,
ai miei fragranti palazzi,
dove essi sempre fluttuano
sotto la carezza d’una stella
chiamata Vespero, che con velo d’argento
sempre nasconde il suo pallido splendore,
sempre dolcemente assonnata mantiene
il crepuscolo perché le Fate possano dormire.
Non temere che i tuoi capelli d’acqua
abbiano sete là, in riccioli riarsi;
nuvole di piogge d’estate serbate
gusterai, prima che prendano le macchie
del suolo di montagna,
e si facciano troppo opache per te.
Ti amo, Fata di cristallo, davvero!
In verità anch’io mi struggo per te!
SALAMANDER Via, Fate rabbrividenti, via!
Gelidi amanti, che baccano
fate col vostro fiato gelato,
più freddo della mortale morte.
Dusketha dagli occhi di vipera, parla,
lasceremo costoro, e andremo a cercare
nelle vaste antiche viscere della terra
giacigli caldi quanto i loro son freddi?
Oh, una tenebra di fuoco e te,
Dusketha, così incantevolmente
dalle ali screziate e dai fianchi di lucertola!
DUSKETHA Da te, Spirito, mi lascerò guidare!
Non m’importa di freddo o di caldo;
Gelo e fiamma, o scintille, o nevischio,
per la mia essenza sono lo stesso; -
ma onoro di più la fiamma.
Spirito del Fuoco, ti seguo
dovunque sia,
ai getti e alle fontane torride,
sotto i monti scossi dal terremoto;
o, al tuo supremo desiderio,
toccare il polso stesso del fuoco
coi miei occhi nudi e senza palpebre.
SALAMANDER Dolce Dusketha! paradiso!
Via, Spiriti di ghiaccio, volate via!
Gelide creature del cielo!
DUSKETHA Soffia su di loro, folletto di fuoco!
ZEPHYR E DUSKETHA Via! via alla nostra delizia!
SALAMANDER Andate, cibatevi di ghiaccioli, mentre noi
staremo coricati in lingue di fiamma.
DUSKETHA Guidami a quelle tenebre febbrili,
Spirito del Fuoco!
BREAMA Me ai boccioli,
Zephyr dagli occhi azzurri, di quei fiori
lontano a occidente dove la nube di maggio s’abbassa:
e i raggi del quieto Vespero, quando i venti sono tutti taciti,
si spandono per la pioggia e la nebbia più mite,
e fanno crepuscolo alle tue pergole fluttuanti.
Written to the Tune of the Air in ‘Don Giovanni’
APOLLO Which of the fairest three
Today will ride with me?
My steeds are all pawing at the threshold of the morn:
Which of the fairest three
Today will ride with me
Across the gold Autumn’s whole Kingdom of corn?
THE GRACES all answer I will, I - I - I -
O O young Apollo let me fly
Along with thee,
I I will - I, I, I,
The many wonders see
I — I — I — I — 10
And thy lyre shall never have a slackened string
I, I, I, I,
Thro the golden day will sing.
Scritto sulla melodia dell’aria del ‘Don Giovanni’
APOLLO Quale delle tre più belle
oggi cavalcherà con me?
I miei destrieri scalpitano tutti sulla soglia del mattino:
quale delle tre più belle
oggi cavalcherà con me
per l’intero Regno di grano dell’aureo Autunno?
LE GRAZIE rispondono tutte Io verrò, io - io - io -
Oh oh giovane Apollo lasciami volare
insieme a te,
io io voglio - io, io, io,
vedere le molte meraviglie
io — io — io — io — 10
e la tua lira non avrà mai una corda allentata
io, io, io, io,
per tutto il giorno d’oro canterò.