“Venite à l’ombra de’ gran Gigli d’oro...”
Annibal Caro (tr. Haider Ali)
1.
Come to the shade of stately fleurs-de-lis,
Sweet muses, faithfuls of my hyacinths,
And intertwining both as one,
Let’s weave some garlands for our gods;
And you, my Lord, that as my sun I love,
Lest they be ruined by the lesser sun,
Do bless them with your storied name,
So they may merit endless praise.
To place a crown upon the heads of kings,
I do not dare, though others urge in vain,
For courage flees me, as does aid;
Yet, you alone unseal me, and dispense
Parnassus; and you rouse me, you direct
My style, my language, and my sense,
So I may discourse loftily, and write.
2.
She sits, as if a sink between two seas,
And two great mountains, Alps and Pyrenees:
Europa’s most serene expanse,
And all that’s circled by the sun,
Replete with treasures, tribes, and holy mounds
That to our God she raises, and maintains.
She’s rich with precious veins of ore,
A mother of the arts, arms, love:
New Cybele, to whom, most joyously,
The elder cedes her chariot and lions:
It seems that you alone do crown
With all her towers Italy, and yourself,
And thus you say, “Go, my Gauls! Now, my Gauls!
The Indians, Persians, and the Turks—
Conquer them all, and form a single realm.”
3.
And of this mother, generous and bright,
Mother as well of Heaven’s paladins,
There reign today, amongst us now,
Some other Joves, with other sons.
They’re worthier of the incense and the shrines
Than ever, ancient Saturn, yours had been,
For each discerns his honour’s root
In meekness and in fear of God.
Gaze at the conqueror, unmatched Henri,
Of once-unconquered Caesar. Hail, all hail!
For he, the dearest friend of Christ,
With piety, with honesty, with arms,
Lifting the poor, and punishing the cruel—
Disdaining marble, spiting bronze—
Does consecrate the statues of his land.
4.
Behold how gentle, yet severe, he is;
Unto himself, he is the law and crown:
See Iris, with Bellona too,
Behind him, Themis just ahead;
See Reason, Wisdom, Truth surrounding him,
Such dignified and constant company.
Hear how his thunder roars above
The Lycaons, and the wicked Giants,
And count the thousand corpses he’s subdued,
And those he strikes at, those he menaces,
From Ossan and Olympian peaks,
Hurling the rent-up mountains to the skies;
When rebel Typhon shall, by him, be slain,
His thunderbolts at last retired,
The world shall celebrate a glorious peace!
5.
His Juno, sat at such a humble height,
Rejoices, happy and secure in love,
As no disdain, nor slightest care,
For Io penetrates her heart.
Her merit, and your valour, noble dame,
Of name and soul’s inviolate and pure.
By Fortune’s serendipity,
And providence of God supreme,
You found the greatest kingdom, and its king;
And from his splendour and your seed
May rise anew the long-lost hope
Of Flora, and of Italy far and wide,
For ever if your rays to her extend,
Enslaved and ruined though she be,
Then Health and Freedom will, to her, attend.
6.
The true Minerva, and so truly born
From Jove himself—from all his wisdom she,
Daughter and sister now of kings,
And soon their mother and their spouse.
Virgin, who with magnificence is crowned,
A favoured star who’s hidden from the sun,
You’ve kept yourself from earthly loves,
To cast your light on doleful Night;
A living pearl, most precious and most bright,
What thing has Phoebus, worthier than you?
He lives for you, and reigns through you,
His burnished lamp with yours does further glow:
So every heart now flares, and mine inflames,
And so I strive to fly and sing
Amongst your swans, though I be maimed and hoarse.
7.
There’s Cynthia too, and there Endymion was:
A pair that would so happy be today
Had not that flower, for her grown,
Been cut when barely blossoming.
But what, if Love imposes sleep as law,
If he has dulled what thus could longer live,
If death was not regret to him,
But life eternal, by her side?
How many hearts and faces, sweet and glad,
Are graced by you, Cytherean, and your band,
How many fierce and noble ones,
Who by their deeds ensure their skyward way?
If they’re not gods, who else could they then be—
What other race is suited more
To club, to thyrsus, and to trident too?
8.
My song, if virtue joined with shining acts
Celestial be, for heaven they are fit,
These royal souls of whom I speak;
Offer them humble flowers in their name,
Extend them in my stead, and say, “though not
Of gold-string, nor with gems inlaid,
They’re of yourselves, and shall be of the stars.”