We present this work in honor of the 490th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Ludovico Ariosto Italian 1474 – 1533
Upon two beauteous images below Each of these female statues fix their feet. The lower seem with open mouth to show That song and harmony to them are sweet; And, by their attitude, ’twould seem, as though Their every work and every study meet In praising them, they on their shoulders bear, As they would those whose likenesses they wear.
The images below them in their hand Long scrolls and of an ample size contain, Which of the worthiest figures of that band The several names with mickle praise explain As well their own at little distance stand, Inscribed upon that scroll, in letters plain, Rinaldo, by the help of blazing lights, Marked, one by one, the ladies and their knights.
The first inscription there which meets the eye Recites at length Lucretia Borgia’s fame, Whom Rome should place, for charms and chastity, Above that wife who whilom bore her name. Strozza and Tebaldeo—Anthony And Hercules—support the honoured dame: (So says the scroll): for tuneful strain, the pair A very Linus and an Orpheus are.
A statue no less jocund, no less bright, Succeeds, and on the writing is impressed; Lo! Hercules’ daughter, Isabella hight, In whom Ferrara deems her city blest, Much more because she first shall see the light Within its circuit, than for all the rest Which kind and favouring Fortune in the flow Of rolling years, shall on that town bestow.
The pair that such desirous ardour shew That aye her praises should be widely blown: John James alike are named: of those fair two, One is Calandra, one is Bardelon. In the third place, and fourth, where trickling through Small rills, the water quits that octagon, Two ladies are there, equal in their birth, Equal in country, honour, charms and worth.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 225th birthday.
Giacomo Leopardi Italian 1798 – 1837
This solitary hill has always been dear to me And this hedge, which prevents me from seeing most of The endless horizon. But when I sit and gaze, I imagine, in my thoughts Endless spaces beyond the hedge, An all encompassing silence and a deeply profound quiet, To the point that my heart is almost overwhelmed. And when I hear the wind rustling through the trees I compare its voice to the infinite silence. And eternity occurs to me, and all the ages past, And the present time, and its sound. Amidst this immensity my thought drowns: And to flounder in this sea is sweet to me.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 710th birthday.
Giovanni Boccaccio Italian 1313 – 1375
I am young and fain to sing In this happy tide of spring Of love and many a gentle thing, I wander through green meadows dight With blossoms gold and red and white; Rose by the thorn and lily fair, Both one and all I do compare With him who, worshipping my charms, For aye would fold me in his arms As one unto his service sworn. Then, when I find a flower that seems Like to the object of my dreams, I gather it and kiss it there, I flatter it in accents fair, My heart outpour, my soul stoop down, Then weave it in a fragrant crown Among my flaxen locks to wear. The rapture nature’s floweret gay Awakes in me doth last alway, As if I tarried face to face With him whose true love is my grace; Thoughts which its fragrancy inspires I cannot frame to my desires, My sighs their pilgrimage do trace. My sights are neither harsh nor sad As other women’s are, but glad And tender; in so fond a wise They seek my love that he replies By coming hither, and so gives Delight to her who in him lives Yet almost wept: “Come, for hope dies.”
O Glorious Mother of sweet Jesus, by Whose sacred death, us from Hell’s portals freeing, Wiped out the sin, O Lady of the sky, In which our primal father had his being, Ah, see Love with his arrows sharp and bold, What grievous fate he goadeth me unto! O piteous Mother, dear ally, withhold His unruly squadrons, let them not pursue!
O grant to me the love which is divine And draweth up our souls to Paradise, So I may loose these passionate bonds of mine. Herein the balm for this wild fury lies, This water doth to quench this fire avail As in a plank a nail drives forth a nail.
We present this work in honor of the 150th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Alessandro Manzoni Italian 1785 – 1873
He was – As motionless as lay, First mingled with the dead, The relics of the senseless clay, Whence such a soul had fled, – The Earth astounded holds her breath, Struck with the tidings of his death: She pauses the last hour to see Of the dread Man of Destiny; Nor knows she when another tread, Like that of the once mighty dead, Shall such a footprint Leave impressed As his, in blood, upon her breast.
I saw him blazing on his throne, Yet hailed him not: by restless fate Hurled from the giddy summit down; Resume again his lofty state: Saw him at last for ever fall, Still mute amid the shouts of all: Free from base flattery, when he rose; From baser outrage, when he fell: Now his career has reached its close, My voice is raised, the truth to tell, And o’er his exiled urn will try To pour a strain that shall not die.
From Alps to Pyramids were thrown His bolts from Scylla to the Don, From Manzanares to the Rhine, From sea to sea, unerring hurled; And ere the flash had ceased to shine, Burst on their aim, – and shook the world. Was this true glory? – The high doom Must be pronounced by times to come: For us, we bow before His throne, Who willed, in gifting mortal clay With such a spirit, to display A grander impress of his own.
His was the stormy, fierce delight To dare adventure’s boldest scheme; The soul of fire, that burned for might, And could of naught but empire dream; And his the indomitable will That dream of empire to fulfil, And to a greatness to attain ‘T were madness to have hoped to gain: All these were his; nor these alone; – Flight, victory, exile, and the throne; – Twice in the dust by thousands trod, Twice on the altar as a god.
Two ages stood in arms arrayed, Contending which should victor be: He spake: – his mandate they obeyed, And bowed to hear their destiny. He stepped between them, to assume The mastery, and pronounce their doom; Then vanished, and inactive wore Life’s remnant out on that lone shore. What envy did his palmy state, What pity his reverses move, Object of unrelenting hate, And unextinguishable love!
As beat innumerable waves O’er the last floating plank that saves One sailor from the wreck, whose eye Intently gazes o’er the main, Far in the distance to descry Some speck of hope, – but all in vain; Did countless waves of memory roll Incessant, thronging on his soul: Recording, for a future age, The tale of his renown, How often on the immortal page His hand sank weary down!
Oft on some sea beat cliff alone He stood, – the lingering daylight gone, And pensive evening come at last, – With folded arms, and eyes declined; While, O, what visions on his mind Came rushing – of the past! The rampart stormed, – lie tented field, – His eagles glittering far and wide, – His columns never taught to yield, – His cavalry’s resistless tide, Watching each motion of his hand, Swift to obey the swift command.
Such thoughts, perchance, last filled his breast, And his departing soul oppressed, To tempt it to despair; Till from on high a hand of might In mercy came to guide its flight Up to a purer air, – Leading it, o’er hope’s path of flowers, To the celestial plains, Where greater happiness is ours Than even fancy feigns, And where earth’s fleeting glories fade Into the shadow of a shade.
Immortal, bright, beneficent, Faith, used to victories, on thy roll Write this with joy; for never bent Beneath death’s hand a haughtier soul; Thou from the worn and pallid clay Chase every bitter word away, That would insult the dead: His holy crucifix, whose breath Has power to raise and to depress, Send consolation and distress, Lay by him on that lowly bed And hallowed it in death.
Pompey, often led, with me, by Brutus, the head of our army, into great danger, who’s sent you back, as a citizen, to your country’s gods and Italy’s sky,
Pompey, the very dearest of my comrades, with whom I’ve often drawn out the lingering day in wine, my hair wreathed, and glistening with perfumed balsam, of Syrian nard?
I was there at Philippi, with you, in that headlong flight, sadly leaving my shield behind, when shattered Virtue, and what threatened from an ignoble purpose, fell to earth.
While in my fear Mercury dragged me, swiftly, through the hostile ranks in a thickening cloud: the wave was drawing you back to war, carried once more by the troubled waters.
So grant Jupiter the feast he’s owed, and stretch your limbs, wearied by long campaigning, under my laurel boughs, and don’t spare the jars that were destined to be opened by you.
Fill the smooth cups with Massic oblivion, pour out the perfume from generous dishes, Who’ll hurry to weave the wreathes for us of dew-wet parsley or pliant myrtle?
Who’ll throw high Venus at dice and so become the master of drink? I’ll rage as insanely as any Thracian: It’s sweet to me to revel when a friend is home again.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 240th birthday.
Gabriele Rossetti Italian 1783 – 1854
Thrilled by the first Phœbean impulses, Rough versicles I traced with facile hand: And yet, to my surprise, those lines of mine Almost took wing into a distant flight. A hope of Pindus did I hear me named: But praise increased my ardour, not my pride. And yet some vanity there came and mixed With the fair issue of my preluding: But, all the more I heard the applause increase, With equal force did study grow in me. Not surely that I tried to load my page With pomp abstruse extraneous to my drift; But counterwise each image and each rhyme, The more spontaneous, so meseemed more fair. In trump of gold and in the oaten pipe Let some seek the sublime, I seek for ease. I shunned those verses which sprawl forth untuned Even from my days of schoolboy tutelage: I know they please some people, but not me: Admiring Dante, Metastasio I laud; and hold—a true Italian ear Must not admit one inharmonious verse. Some lines require a very surgeon’s hand To make them upon crutches stand afoot. So be they! But, to set them musical, They must, by Heaven, be in themselves a song. This seems a truthful, not a jibing, rule— Music and lyric are a twinborn thing. Yet think not that I deem me satisfied With upblown empty sound without ideas:— Then will a harmony be beautiful When great emotions and great thoughts it stirs.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 325th birthday.
Pietro Metastasio Italian 1698 – 1782
Why, froward goddess, try and try again To block my every step with brambles and rocks? Wouldst cow me by your stare of high disdain Or make me drag you toward me by your locks? Such practices might well be the undoing Of easily panicked souls, but be advised: If the whole world fell suddenly into ruin I’d watch it, curious yet unexercised.
To confrontations of this kid I feel Quite equal now. I know you are still trying To wear me down, eventually. Not so: For I am like to steel which, in defying The constant injuries of hammer and wheel, Grows finer and more luminous with each blow.
Poets Corner 