Sermione

See how green Sermio laughs in the lake's lucid waters,she the peninsula's flower!

The Sun pours down his caresses, while, all around, the Benacoshines like a great silver cup

along whose rim is entwined a wreath of peaceful olivemixed with the laurel eternal;

and so the radiant goblet Italia the Mother holds forthwith lofty arms to the gods;

and they from the skies have let thee fall in, O Sermio,thee, the peninsular jewel!

Above, the paternal mountain boldly stands guard o'er thy beauty,watching with gloomy eyebrow.

Beneath lies the land like a Titan slain in some desperate battle,prostrate, but threatening revenge.

But along the curved shores of the bay at the left of the mountainstretch out the fair white arms

like unto those of a child who, happy on entering the dance,throws to the breeze her hair,

laughs, and with generous hand deals out her flowers right and left,and crowns the chief youth with her garland.

Garda there, far below, lifts up her dusky shouldersover the liquid mirror,

singing the while a saga of cities ancient and buried,and their barbaric kings.

But here, O Lalage, whence, through the holy joys of the azure,thou sendest thy soul-glance;

here Valerius Catullus moored to the wet rocks, of old,his frail pitched canoe,

sat through the long days and watched in the waves, phosphorescent and tremulous,the eyes of his Lesbia;

yea, and saw in those waves the changing moods of his Lesbia,saw her perfidious smile,

the while she beguiled with her charms, through darksome haunts of the town,the princely nephews of Romulus.

To him from the humid depths sang forth the nymph of the lake,“Come to us, Quintus Valerius!

“Here to our grottoes descend still the sun rays, but silveryand mild as those of Cynthia.

“Here the assiduous tumults that burden thy life but resemblethe distant humming of bees,

“and, in the silence cool, thy cares, all frenzied and fearful,gently fade into oblivion.

“Here the fresh air, here the sleep, the soothing music and chorusof the cerulean virgins,

“while Hesperus over the waters broadens his rosy face,and the waves are lapping the shore.”

Alas for sad Love! how the Muses he hates; how the poet he shatterswith lust, or with jealousy kills!

But who from thine eyes and the wars they are plotting afar,O Lalage, who shall protect?

Pluck for the Muses three boughs of sacred laurel and myrtle,wave them in sunlight eternal!

Seest thou not from Peschiera how the flocks of white swans are swimmingdown through the silvery Mincio?

Dost thou not hear from the green pastures where sleeps Bianorethe sound of Virgilius' voice?

O Lalage, turn and adore! From yonder tower of the Scaligerslooks out a face stern and grand.

“Suso in Italia bella,” smiling he murmurs, and looksat the water, the earth, and the sky.