With equal steps, Italia, tow’rd their close
Approach the winter, and thine hours of life;
Nor know'st thou yet with what a storm of woes
For thee the clouds of destiny are rife.
But as the Nile pursues his hidden course,
Till all at once his mighty waters rise;
Ev'n so on thee in fury from their source
Shall burst the torrent of thy miseries.
Then shalt thou see, beneath that whelming tide
Shipwreck'd and sunk, thine over-jealous fears,
Thy helpless prudence and vainglorious pride !
Then see how weak disjointed pow'r appears !
Then learn how vain the coward statesman's art,
Who fears to guard the whole, yet hopes to save a part. 14
Sono, Italia, per te discordia e morte
In due nomi una cosa; e a
sì
gran
male
Un mal s'aggiugne non minor, che frale
Non se'abbastanza nè abbastanza forte.
In tale stato, in così dubbia sorte
5
Ceder non piace, e contrastar non vale :
Onde come a mezz' aria impennan l'ale,
E a fiera pugna i venti apron le porte;
a
Tra 'l frale e 'l forte tuo non altrimenti
Nascon quasi a mezz'aria, e guerra fanno
D'ira, invidia e timor turbini e venti;
E tai piovono in te nembi d'affanno,
Che se speri o disperi, osi o paventi,
Diverso è 'l rischio, e sempre ugual fia 'l danno. 14
For thee, Italia, Death and Discord are
Two names, one thing; and with this ill thou hast
Another greater ; that too weak for war,
,
Thou art too strong to be in silence past.
In such perplexing state of doubt and care,
To yield is bitter, hopeless to contend :
Whence, as conflicting winds in middle air,
Now here, now there, their balanc'd pinions bend;
So mingled Jealousy, and Fear, and Rage,
Self-pois'd between thy weakness and thy pow'r, 10
Within thy breast their whirlwind battle wage;
And down on thee such storms of mis’ry show'r,
That, hope—despair-or crouch, or nobly strike, Though varying still the risk, thy doom is seal'd alike!
Quando giù dai gran monti bruna bruna
Cade l'ombra, un pensiero a dir mi sforza :
S'accende altrove il dì, se qui si smorza;
Nè tutto a un tempo l'universo imbruna.
Indi esclamo: Qual notte atra importuna
Tutte l'ampie tue glorie a un tratto ammorza ?
Glorie di senno, di valor, di forza
Già mille avesti; or non hai tu pur una.
E in cosi buie tenebre non vedi
L'alto incendio di guerra, onde tuttardi ?
E non credi al tuo mal, se agli occhi credi ?
Ma se tue stragi col soffrir ritardi,
Soffri, misera, soffri; indi a te chiedi
Se sia forse vittoria il perder tardi.
When darker still th’embrowning shade declines
From the huge mountain-top, “our dying light,”
Musing I cry, "on other nations shines,
Nor reigns o’er all one universal night.”
But thou, Italia ! in what gloom departs
The vanish'd glory of thy mid-day sun!
Glories of wit and valour, arms and arts,
All once were thine, and now remains not one !
Amid such gloomy darkness, seest thou not
The flame of war that kindles all around ?
Or dost thou see, nor yet believe thy lot ?
But if by suff’ring still delay be found,
Yes, suffer still! yet shalt thou sometime see
That death deferr'd awhile, is far from victory !
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