Imatges de pÓgina

Our sorrows and our pains,

These are thy noble gains.

But oh, thou Love's and Nature's masterer,

Thou conqueror of the crowned,

What dost thou on this ground,

Too small a circle for thy mighty sphere?

Go, and make slumber dear

To the renowned and high;

E son tuoi fatti egregi

Le pene, e i pianti nostri.

Ma tu d'Amore e di Natura donno,

Tu domator de' regi,

Che fai tra questi chiostri,

Che la grandezza tua capir non ponno?

Vattene, e turba il sonno

A gl' illustri e potenti :

We here, a lowly race,

Can live without thy grace,

After the use of mild antiquity.

Go, let us love; since years

No truce allow, and life soon disappears;

Go, let us love; the daylight dies, is born;

But unto us the light

Dies once for all; and sleep brings on eternal night.

Noi qui, negletta e bassa

Turba, senza te lassa

Viver ne l' uso de l' antiche genti.

Amiam; che non la tregua

Con gli anni umana viva, e si dilegua.

Amiam; che 'l sol si muore, e poi rinasce;

A noi sua breve luce

S'asconde, e 'l sonno eterna notte adduce.



THE Author has translated the whole of this popular piece of Italian pleasantry, which is a criticism on the wines of the poet's country; but even in the original it is perhaps too long, especially as a monologue; for Bacchus talks it all from beginning to end; and the local nature of the subjects and the allusions renders it, for the most part, of little interest to a foreign reader. He has persuaded himself, however, that a few passages will bring their recommendation with them, in the gaiety of their animal spirits. The original is like a Bacchanalian dance, broken occasionally with quaint contradictions to the movement, and pithy speeches addressed to the spectators.


GIVE me, give me Buriano,

Trebbiano, Colombano,

Give me bumpers, rich and clear!

Io di Pescia il Buriano,
Il Trebbiano, il Colombano

Mi tracanno a piena mano :

'Tis the true old Aurum Potabile.

Gilding life when it wears shabbily:

Helen's old Nepenthe 'tis,

That in the drinking

Swallowed thinking,

And was the receipt for bliss.

Thence it is, that ever and aye,

When he doth philosophize,

Egli è il vero Oro Potabile,
Che mandar suole in esilio

Ogni male irrimediabile;

Egli è d' Elena il Nepente,

Che fa stare il mondo allegro,

Da' pensieri

Foschi e neri

Sempre sciolto, e sempre esente.
Quindi avvien, che sempre mai
Tra la sua filosofia

Good old glorious Rucellai
Hath it for light unto his eyes;

He lifteth it, and by the shine
Well discerneth things divine;

Atoms with their airy justles,

And all manner of corpuscles;

And, as through a crystal sky-light,

How morning differeth from evening twilight;

And further telleth us the reason why go

Some stars with such a lazy light, and some with a


Lo teneva in compagnia

Il buon vecchio Rucellai;

Ed al chiaro di lui ben comprendea

Gli atomi tutti quanti, e ogni corpusculo,

E molto ben distinguere sapea

Dal matutino il vespertin crepusculo,

Ed additava donde avesse origine

La pigrizia degli astri, e la virtigine.

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