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La Tempesta di Ugo Foscolo Posted by on Jul 24, 2014 in Uncategorized

Introduction by Geoff

It’s been a stormy week. It all began early Monday morning when a violent thunderstorm shook me from my dreams and commanded me to write a blog. Yes, inspiration from the skies! We began with La Tempesta from Vivaldi’s Le Quattro Stagioni, took a musical detour to 18th century Spain, courtesy of  Maestro Boccherini, and here we are back in Italy again with a passionate poem by Ugo Foscolo (1778 – 1827).

14_Fabre_Ritratto-di-Ugo-Foscolo

Portrait of Ugo Foscolo by François-Xavier-Pascal Fabre (Public Domain)

Now I’m going to hand over to Serena who will dipanare la matassa di questa poesia (unravel this poem), which, being written in an 18th century Italian, eludes my comprehension.

La Tempesta di Ugo Foscolo

The Storm, by Ugo Foscolo

Sparve il sereno, o Doride,
dal ciel, già mugge il vento
fra gli alberi, e succedono
silenzio, orror, spavento.

The calm has disappeared, oh Doride,
from the sky, the wind already roars
in the trees, and is followed
by silence, horror, fright.

Tutti gli augei si turbano
entro i lor nidi ascosi,
ove i concerti obbliano
de’ canti armoniosi.

All the birds are unsettled
inside their hidden nests,
where they cease to sing
their harmonious songs

Sol vedesi la rondine,
priva de’ suoi compagni,
rader la superficie
de’ paludosi stagni.

Only the swallow is seen,
without its companions,
skimming the surface
of the marshy ponds

Vien, Dori, vien: cerchiamoci
salvar dalla tempesta,
ve’ quante rose chinano
la tenerella testa.

Come, Dori, come: let’s try
to save ourselves from the storm,
Look how many roses bend
their tender heads.

Sopra di loro il turbine
tetre minacce ha sciolte,
sembra che solo bramino
esser da tue man colte.

Above them the whirl
has unloosed dark menaces,
they seem only to desire
to be picked by your hands

Come all’aspetto tremano
di lor vicina morte,
le cogli, o Dori tenera,
pria di sì ‘nfausta sorte.

As they seem to tremble
because their death is near,
you pick them, oh sweet Dori,
before such ominous fate.

Spiri la gaia porpora
delle lor foglie lievi
del seno tuo purissimo
su le ridenti nevi.

May the jolly purple
of their light petals blow
over the joyous snows
of your purest breasts

Ecco dal nembo torbido
in parte siam sicura,
qual sotto questa pergola
si temerà sventura?

Here we are in a place
safe from the dark cloud,
beneath this pergola
what misfortune can one fear?

Felicitade amabile!
In questo asilo ombroso
ci attende di bei grappoli
il succo delizioso.

Oh sweet happiness!
In this shady shelter
the delicious juice
of beautiful grapes awaits us.

Fiero Aquilone, or l’impeto
del tuo furor qui puoi
spiegar, e al sen di Doride
torre anche il vel se vuoi

Oh fierce north wind, now
you can release the impulse
of your fury, and from Dori’s breasts,
if you wish, remove the veil.

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