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Carducci, Giosuè: Ça ira (Ça ira in English)

Portre of Carducci, Giosuè

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Ça ira (Italian)

I

Lieto su i colli di Borgogna splende

E in val di Marna a le vendemmie il sole:

Il riposato suol piccardo attende

L’aratro che l’inviti a nuova prole.

 

Ma il falcetto su l’uve iroso scende

Come una scure, e par che sangue cóle:

Nel rosso vespro l’arator protende

L’occhio vago a le terre inculte e sole,

 

Ed il pungolo vibra in su i mugghianti

Quasi che l’asta palleggiasse, e afferra

La stiva urlando: Avanti, Francia, avanti!

 

Stride l’aratro in solchi aspri: la terra

Fuma: l’aria oscurata è di montanti

Fantasimi che cercano la guerra.

 

II

Son de la terra faticosa i figli

Che armati salgon le ideali cime,

Gli azzurri cavalier bianchi e vermigli

Che dal suolo plebeo la Patria esprime.

 

E tu, Kleber, da gli arruffati cigli,

Leon ruggente ne le linee prime;

E tu via sfolgorante in tra i perigli,

Lampo di giovinezza, Hoche sublime.

 

Desaix che elegge a sé il dovere e dona

Altrui la gloria, e l’onda procellosa

Di Murat che s’abbatte a una corona;

 

E Marceau che a la morte radïosa

Puro i suoi ventisette anni abbandona

Come a le braccia d’arridente sposa.

 

III

Da le ree Tuglierí di Caterina

Ove Luigi inginocchiossi a i preti,

E a’ cavalier bretanni la regina

Partía sorrisi lacrime e segreti,

 

Tra l’afosa caligin vespertina

Sorge con atti né tristi né lieti

Una forma, ed il fuso attorce e china,

E con la rócca attinge alta i pianeti.

 

E fila e fila e fila. Tutte sere

Al lume de la luna e de le stelle

La vecchia fila, e non si stanca mai.

 

Brunswick appressa, e in fronte a le sue schiere

La forca; e ad impiccar questa ribelle

Genía di Francia ci vuol corda assai!

 

IV

L’un dopo l’altro i messi di sventura

Piovon come dal ciel, Longwy cadea.

E i fuggitivi da la resa oscura

S’affollan polverosi a l’Assemblea.

 

– Eravamo dispersi in su le mura:

A pena ogni due pezzi un uom s’avea:

Lavergne disparí ne la paura:

L’armi fallían. Che piú far si potea? –

 

– Morir – risponde l’Assemblea seduta.

Goccian per que’ riarsi volti strane

Lacrime: e parton con la fronte bassa.

 

Grande in ciel l’ora del periglio passa,

Batte con l’ala a stormo le campane.

O popolo di Francia, aiuta, aiuta!

 

V

Udite, udite, o cittadini. Ieri

Verdun a l’inimico aprí le porte:

Le ignobili sue donne a i re stranieri

Dan fiori e fanno ad Artois la corte,

 

E propinando i vin bianchi e leggeri

Ballano con gli ulani e con le scorte.

Verdun, vile città di confettieri,

Dopo l’onta su te caschi la morte!

 

Ma Beaurepaire il vivere rifiuta

Oltre l’onore, e gitta ultima sfida

L’anima a i fati a l’avvenire e a noi.

 

La raccolgon dal ciel gli antichi eroi,

E la non nata ancor gente ci grida

“O popolo di Francia, aiuta, aiuta.„

 

VI

Su l’ostel di città stendardo nero

– Indietro! – dice al sole ed a l’amore:

Romba il cannone, nel silenzio fiero,

Di minuto in minuto ammonitore.

 

Gruppo d’antiche statue severo

Sotto i nunzi incalzantisi con l’ore

Sembra il popolo: in tutti uno il pensiero

– Perché viva la patria, oggi si muore. –

 

In conspetto a Danton, pallido, enorme,

Furie di donne sfilano, cacciando

Gli scalzi figli sol di rabbia armati.

 

Marat vede ne l’aria oscure torme

D’uomini con pugnali erti passando,

E piove sangue donde son passati.

 

VII

Una bieca druidica visione

Su gli spiriti cala e gli tormenta:

Da le torri papali d’Avignone

Turbine di furor torbido venta.

 

O passïon de gli Albigesi, o lenta

De gli Ugonotti nobil passïone,

Il vostro sangue bulica e fermenta

E i cuori inebria di perdizïone.

 

Ecco la pena e il tribunale orrendo

Che d’ombra immane il secol novo impronta!

Oh, sei la Francia tu, bianca ragazza

 

Che su ’l tremulo padre alta sorgendo

A espïare e salvar bevi con pronta

Mano il sangue de’ tuoi da piena tazza?

 

VIII

Gemono i rivi e mormorano i venti

Freschi a la savoiarda alpe natia.

Qui suon di ferro, e di furore accenti.

Signora di Lamballe, a l’Abbadia.

 

E giacque, tra i capelli aurei fluenti,

Ignudo corpo in mezzo de la via;

E un parrucchier le membra anco tepenti

Con sanguinose mani allarga e spia.

 

Come tenera e bianca, e come fina!

Un giglio il collo e tra mughetti pare

Garofano la bocca piccolina.

 

Su, co’ begli occhi del color del mare,

Su, ricciutella, al Tempio! A la regina

Il buon dí de la morte andiamo a dare.

 

IX

Oh non mai re di Francia al suo levare

Tali di salutanti ebbe un drappello!

La fósca torre in quel tumulto pare

Sperso nel mezzodí notturno uccello.

 

Ivi su ’l medio evo il secolare

Braccio discese di Filippo il Bello,

Ivi scende de l’ultimo Templare

Sul’ultimo Capeto oggi l’appello.

 

Ecco, mugge l’orribile corteo:

La fiera testa in su la picca ondeggia,

E batte a le finestre. Ed il re prono

 

Da le finestre de la trista reggia

Guarda il popolo, e a Dio chiede perdono

De la notte di San Bartolommeo.

 

X

Al calpestío de’ barbari cavalli

Ne l’avel si svegliò dunque Baiardo?

E su le dolci orleanesi valli

La Pulcella rileva il suo stendardo?

 

Dal’Alta Sona e dal ventoso Gardo

Chi vien cantando a i mal costrutti valli

Sbarrati di tronchi alberi? È il gagliardo

Vercingetorix co’ suoi rossi Galli?

 

No: Dumouriez, la spia, nel cor riscuote

Il genio di Condè: sopra la carta

Militare uno sguardo acceso lancia,

 

Ed una fila di colline ignote

Additando – Ecco – dice –, o nuova Sparta,

Le felici Termopile di Francia. –

 

XI

Su i colli de le Argonne alza il mattino

Brumoso, accidïoso e lutolento.

Il tricolor bagnato in su ’l mulino

Di Valmy chiede in vano il sole e il vento.

 

Sta, sta, bianco mugnaio. Oggi il destino

Per l’avvenire macina l’evento,

E l’esercito scalzo cittadino

Dà col sangue a la ruota il movimento.

 

– Viva la patria – Kellermann, levata

La spada in tra i cannoni, urla, serrate

De’ sanculotti l’epiche colonne.

 

La marsigliese tra la cannonata

Sorvola, arcangel de la nova etate,

Le profonde foreste de le Argonne.

 

XII

Marciate, o de la patria incliti figli,

De i cannoni e de’ canti a l’armonia:

Il giorno de la gloria oggi i vermigli

Vanni a la danza del valore apria.

 

Ingombra di paura e di scompigli

Al re di Prussia è del tornar la via:

Ricaccia gli emigrati a i vili esigli

La fame il freddo e la dissenteria.

 

Livido su quel gran lago di fango

Guizza il tramonto, i colli d’un modesto

Riso di sole attingono la gloria.

 

E da un gruppo d’oscuri esce Volfango

Goethe dicendo: Al mondo oggi da questo

Luogo incomincia la novella storia.



Uploaded byP. T.
Source of the quotationhttp://it.wikisource.org/wiki

Ça ira (English)

I

The gay sun shines on the Burgundian hills,

And in the vintage of Marne's vale delights,

And Picardy awaits the plough that tills

Her fallow soil, and harvest new invites.

 

But like an axe the wrathful sickle smites

Upon the vines, like blood their red juice spills.

The ploughman's eye strains through the eve's red lights,

Across waste lonely lands which autumn chills ;

 

The goad is brandished as it were a lance

Above the team, the driver holding taut

The guiding gear, shouts: "Forward, forward France!"

 

The ploughshare in the furrow shrieks, fresh wrought

The moist earth reeks, from the dim mists advance

Phantasmal shapes as tho' they battle sought.

 

II

They are the sons of the toil-compelling earth

Who rise full-armed to reach the ideal height,

To whom for Fatherland the soil gave birth,

Plebeian horsemen blue and red and white.

 

Thou, Kleber,  dark of brow, for home and hearth

A roaring lion foremost in the fight :

And thou, ablaze through perils in thy path,

Hoche the sublime, thou flash of youth and light.

 

Desaix, who duty chose and left renown

To others ; and Murat, tempestuous wave,

Who stooped so low as to accept a crown,

 

And Marceau, who in radiant death his pride

Of youth and his pure soul to silence gave,

Like one who hastens to embrace his bride.

 

III

In Catherine's - guilty Tuileries, where late

The pious Louis to his priests would kneel,

Where Breton knights thrilled to the Queen's appeal,

Her smiles, her tears, secrets revealed of State.

 

When falls the sultry gloaming, fraught with fate

A shape is seen: nor joy her acts reveal,

Nor grief; she twists her spindle, twirls her wheel,

The stars she reaches with her distaff great.

 

The crone spins through each night by moonlight wan,

She spins by light of stars, she spins, she spins.

Never she wearies, never taketh rest.

 

Brunswick draws nigh, a gallows in his van.

Much rope he needeth to chastise the sins

Of France, by rebel spirit strong possesst.

 

IV

The bearers of ill tidings, post on post,

Came thick as hail: "Longwy has fallen!" cry

From their surrender vile the flying host

Who, dusty, crowding to the Assembly hie.

 

We manned the walls, but we were at the most

But one man to two guns ; 'twas vain to try

To hold the town, arms failed us, we were lost.

"What could we do ?" As one voice rose reply :

 

"Have died!" Down sunburnt cheeks unwonted tears

Fell drop by drop ; then with their heads low bowed

They turned and went, nor cast one upward glance.

 

The hour of peril passes, the sky clears,

Its wing vibrates upon the tocsin loud :

" Up, people, up ! Help, help, O Sons of France ! "

 

V

Hear, hear, ye citizens, Verdun her gates

Has opened to the foe, her daughters base

Receive the foreign kings with flowery fetes,

And bow before Artois in courtly grace !

 

They quaff white wine whose sparkling draught elates,

With Uhlan escort mazy dances pace.

Verdun, vile town, confectioners of cates !

Death follow shame ! Death only can efface.

 

But Beaurepaire dishonourable mischance

Refuses to survive : his soul a last

Gaze hurls at us, the future and at fate.

 

In heaven to take it antique heroes wait.

To children yet unborn the cry has pass'd

" Up, people, up ! Help, help, O Sons of France ! "

 

VI

See o'er the Hotel de Ville the black flag fly,

Avaunt ! It cries to love and to the sun.

On the dread silence breaks the minute gun,

With warning roar hear minute guns reply.

 

With group severe of antique sculpture vie

The people, whom each hour fresh tidings stun,

And brand men's hearts till all their thoughts are one

"That Fatherland may live, to-day men die."

 

Before the face of Danton, monstrous, wan,

Long files of women furies pass, urge on

Their shoeless sons before them armed with wrath,

 

And Marat sees in air grim groups come forth

Of men with pikes who pass across the place,

And where they pass, behold! a bloody trace.

 

VII

A vision white, a sacrificial train

Of Druids, falling on men's souls torments

Them: while Avignon's a Papal towers unchain

A whirlwind, which its turgid fury vents.

 

O suffering Albigenses, your laments,

And Huguenots, your slow protracted pain,

Now boils your martyr blood, boils and ferments,

Making men's hearts intoxicate with bane.

 

This the tribunal, this the penal fire

The new age borrows from the horrific shade !

O art thou France, who o'er thy trembling sire

 

Risest to take with ready hand and brave

The cup filled with thy kindred's blood, fair maid,

Then drainst the draught to expiate and save ?

 

VIII

The Alpine winds are mourning ; on the shore

The waves bemoan Savoy's ill-fated child.

Here clash of steel and shouts of fury wild.

"Lady of Lamballe, the Abbaye by yon door !"

 

Naked she lies, her golden hair defiled

With soil, in the mid street ; one outrage more ;

A barber in the crowd, hands stained with gore,

Stretched out the tender limbs, and looking smiled :

 

A lily is her neck, like pearls between

Carnations red her lips and teeth appear.

How fine her skin, how white, how smooth, how soft !

 

Up, eyes the colour of the sea, aloft !

Up, curl-crowned head ! We'll towards the Temple bear,

"And Death shall bid good morrow to the Queen."

 

IX

Oh ne'er to King of France at his levee

Did such a crowd their salutation bring ;

The tower dark appears night-bird of prey,

Who in the noon-tide spreads ill-omened wing.

 

Philip the Fair, that Mediaeval King,

Extended here the secular arm to slay ;

And here the last Knight Templar's voice doth ring

In summons to the last Capet to-day.

 

Now hear the howling of the horrid crew,

Upon the lofty pike the proud head sways,

Knocks at the window. And the King prostrate

 

Looks down from that sad house of Royal state

Upon the people : to God for pardon prays

For the dread night of St. Bartholomew.

 

X

Beneath the trampling of barbarian horse

Awakes within his grave again Bayard ?

In Orleans' smiling vale, as last resource

Erects the Maid once more her pure standard ?

 

Who comes from Haute Saone, from wind-swept Garde

To where the felled trees bar their singing course

Repairing faulty ramparts ? Is it the galliard

Vercingetorix' red-haired Gallic force ?

 

No, 'tis the spy Dumouriez ; in his heart

There beats the genius of Conde ; he throws

Upon the outspread map one burning glance :

 

Those unknown hills which stretch athwart the chart

Shall be new Sparta's bulwark 'gainst her foes

These hills are the Thermopylae of France !

 

XI

In the Argonne, over the eastern hill

The slow dawn breaks with heavy mist and rain

The tricolour flaps wet above the mill

Of Valmy, craving sun and wind in vain.

 

Stay, stay, white miller. Destiny doth fill

Thy place to-day ; the future is the grain.

To-day the shoeless civic army will

With red blood set the moving wheels in train.

 

His sword upraised : " For Fatherland, on, on ! "

The epic columns of Sans-culottes close.

The Marseillaise, 'mid cannonade of foes,

 

Above the forests deep of the Argonne,

Archangel of the new-born era soars

Then Kellerman 'mid noise of cannon roars.

 

XII

March, famous children of the Fatherland,

To songs' and cannon's harmony advance !

This day of glory did to-day expand

Vermilion pinions in the valorous dance.

 

Confusion dire which panic fears enhance

Encumbers Prussia's road with troops unmanned ;

Hunger and cold, diseases and mischance,

Back to their refuge chase the exile band.

 

The pallid sunset flickers o'er the vast

Expanse of mire, the neighbouring hills secure

From the sun sinking one faint smile of glory.

 

Wolfgang von Goethe on the turmoil cast

His eye, said, issuing from a group obscure,

"To-day from this place starts the world's new story."



Uploaded byP. T.
Source of the quotationhttp://www.archive.org/stream

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