Ma poi che 'l dolce riso humile et piano
piú non asconde sue bellezze nove,
le braccia a la fucina indarno move
l'antiquissimo fabbro ciciliano,
ch'a Giove tolte son l'arme di mano
temprate in Mongibello a tutte prove,
et sua sorella par che si rinove
nel bel guardo d'Apollo a mano a mano.
Del lito occidental si move un fiato,
che fa securo il navigar senza arte,
et desta i fior' tra l'erba in ciascun prato.
Stelle noiose fuggon d'ogni parte,
disperse dal bel viso inamorato,
per cui lagrime molte son già sparte.
|
But now that her clear sweet humble smile
no longer hides the freshness of her beauty,
that Sicilian smith of ancient times
works his arms at the forge in vain,
for Jupiter lets the weapons fall from his hand,
tempered though they were in Etna's fires,
and Juno his sister begins to clear the air
under Apollo's lovely gaze on every side.
A breeze blows from the western shore
that makes it safe to sail without art,
and fills the grass with flowers in every meadow.
Harmful stars vanish from the whole sky,
scattered by that beloved, lovely face,
for which I've already shed so many tears.
Note:
A companion poem to fourty-one. Vulcan
is the Sicilian smith. The original says
Mongibello rather than the better known
Mount Etna where Vulvan had his forge.
|
