Quando il principio dei sospir miei tanti.
WHEN she who was the source of all my sighs
By Heaven was ta'en away from earth in death,
Nature, who never form'd so fair a face,
Stood by abash'd, and he who saw it wept.
O cruel fortune of my cherish'd love,
O ye deceitful hopes! and thou fair spirit,
Where art thou fled? The earth has back received
Thy beauteous frame, and Heaven thy pious thoughts.
Vainly did cruel Death believe it had
Power to silence here thy virtue's fame,
O'er which oblivion is impotent.
For when thou 'rt gone, thy memory shall survive
In many a page; and thus alone through death
Couldst thou regain thy resting-place in Heaven.
LOVE! if thou art a god,
As the world calls thee, and all-powerful,
Take from my soul, alas! thy snares.
Hope with the great desire
Of lofty Beauty ill accords,
In the last years, when parting-time is near. Thy every grace now burdens, weighs on me; For, if the joy be short, the pain is doubled, And late enjoyment cannot bring me peace.
Tornami al tempo, allor che lenta e sciolta.
RETURN me to the time when loose the curb,
And my blind ardour's rein was unrestrain'd;
Restore the face, angelic and serene,
Which took from Nature all she had of charm;
Restore the steps, wasted with toil and pain,
That are so slow to one now full of years;
Bring back the tears, the fire within my breast,
If thou wouldst see me glow and weep again.
Yet if 'tis true, O Love, that thou dost live
Alone upon our sweet and bitter tears,
What canst thou hope from an old dying man?
Now that my soul has almost reach'd the shore,
'Tis time to prove the darts of other love,
And become food of a more worthy fire.
Già vecchio, e d'anni grave.
ALREADY full of years and heaviness,
I turn to former thoughts of young desires,
As weight that to its centre gravitates,
Which ere it reach, it findeth no repose.
Heaven holdeth out the key;
Love turns it, and unlocks to virtuous minds
The sanctuary of the Beautiful.
He chaseth from me every wrong desire,
And leads me on, feeble and weak with age,
And all unworthy, midst the good and great.
For from this Beauty there doth grace proceed
So strange, so sweet, and of such influence,
That he who dies through her, through her doth live.
Perchè si tardi, e perchè non più spesso.
WHY with such slow and interrupted flights
Doth the strong noble ardour of my soul
Raise me from earth, and upward bear my heart
To where by its own powers it ne'er could rise?
Such intervals, it may be, are allow'd
By the high providence that rules thy love,
Since what is rare has greater force and power,
The more it is desired, the less approach'd.
The interval is night, the sight is day;
That chills my spirit, this enkindles it
With love, with faith, and with celestial rays.
Then could I but behold with ceaseless view
How shines the source from whence proceeds my flame,
Who with more glorious ardour ever burn'd?
|