| MORTE, PERCHÉ M'HAI FATTA ... | OF HIS DEAD LADY |
| Giacomino Pugliese | tr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti |
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Morte, perchè m'hai fatta si gran guerra, Che m'hai tolta Madonna, ond' io mi doglio? La fior delle bellezze mort' hai in terra, Perchè lo mondo non amo nè voglio. Villana morte, che non hai pietanza, Disparti amore e togli la allegranza E dài cordoglio; La mia allegranza hai posta in gran tristanza, Chè m'hai tolto la gioia e l'allegranza Ch'avere soglio. Solea aver sollazzo e gioco e riso Più che null' altro cavalier che sia. Or n'è gita Madonna in Paradiso: Portonne la dolce speranza mia, Lasciommi in pene e con sospiri e pianti, Levommi da lo gioco e da li canti E compagnia. Or non la veggio, nè le sto davanti, E non mi mostra li dolzi sembianti, Come solia. Oi Deo! perchè m'hai posto in tale iranza? Ch'io son smarrito, nè so ove mi sia; Chè m'hai levato la dolce speranza, Partit' hai la più dolce compagnia, Che sia in nulla parte, ciò m'è aviso; Madonna, chi lo tiene, lo tuo viso, In sua balia? Lo vostro insegnamento dond' e miso? E lo tuo franco cor chi mi l'à priso, Madonna mia? Ov' è Madonna e lo suo insegnamento, La sua bellezza e la gran conoscianza, Lo dolce riso e lo bel parlamento, Gli occhi e la bocca e la bella sembianza, Lo adornamento e la sua cortesia? Madonna, per cui stava tuttavia In allegranza, Or non la veggio nè notte nè dia, E non m'abbella, sė com' far solia, In sua sembianza. Se fosse mio 'l reame d'Ungaria Con Grecia e la Magna infino in Franza, Lo gran tesoro di Santa Sofia, Non poria ristorar sė gran perdanza, Come fu in quella dia che si n'andao Madonna, e d'esta vita trapassao Con gran tristanza: Sospiri e pene e piano mi lasciao, E giamai nulla gioia mi mandao Per confortanza. Se fosse il meo voler, Donna, di voi, Direste a Dio Sovran, che tutto face, Che notte e giorno istessimo ambondoi. Or sia il voler di Dio, dacchè a lui piace. Membro e ricordo quand' era con meco, Sovente m'appellava dolce amico, Et or nol face, Poi Dio la prese e menolla con.seco. La sua vertute sia, Bella, con teco, E la sua pace. |
Death, why hast thou made life so hard to bear, Taking my lady hence? Hast thou no whit Of shame? The youngest flower and the most fair Thou hast pluck'd away, and the world wanteth it. O leaden Death, hast thou no pitying? Our warm love's very spring Thou stopp'st, and endest what was holy and meet; And of my gladdening Mak'st a most woful thing, And in my heart dost bid the bird not sing That sang so sweet. Once the great joy and solace that I had Was more than is with other gentlemen: - Now is my love gone hence, who made me glad. With her that hope I lived in she hath ta'en, And left me nothing but these sighs and tears, - Nothing of the old years That come not back again, Wherein I was so happy, being her's. Now to mine eyes her face no more appears, Nor doth her voice make music in mine ears, As it did then. O God, why hast thou made my grief so deep? Why set me in the dark to grope and pine? Why parted me from her companionship, And crush'd the hope which was a gift of thine? To think, dear, that I never any more Can see thee as before! Who is it shuts thee in? Who hides that smile for which my heart is sore, And drowns those words that I am longing for, Lady of mine? Where is my lady, and the lovely face She had, and the sweet motion when she walk'd? Her chaste, mild favour - her so delicate grace - Her eyes, her mouth, and the dear way she Her courteous bending - her most noble air - The soft fall of her hair? ... My lady - she who to my soul so rare A gladness brought! Now I do never see her anywhere, And may not, looking in her eyes, gain there The blessing which I sought. So if I had the realm of Hungary, With Greece, and all the Almayn even to France, Or Saint Sophia's treasure-hoard, you see All could not give me back her countenance. For since the day when my dear lady died From us, (with God being born and glorified,) No more pleasaunce Her image bringeth, seated at my side, But only tears. Ay me! the strength and pride Which it brought once. Had I my will, beloved, I would say To God, unto whose bidding all things bow, That we were still together night and day: Yet be it done as His behests allow. I do remember that while she remain'd With me, she often call'd me her sweet friend; But does not now, Because God drew her towards Him, in the end. Lady, that peace which none but He can send Be thine. Even so. |