From An Anthology of Italian Poems 13th-19th Century selected and translated by Lorna de’ Lucchi, Alfred A. Knopf, New York; 1922; pp. 108-113, 351.
[For purists, the Italian text of the poems follows the English translation.]
ANGELO (or ANGIOLO) POLIZIANO, (Angiolo Ambrogini da Montepulciano), born at Montepulciano; tutor to the sons of Lorenzo de’ Medici; in 1480 Professor of Greek and Latin Literature at Florence; held many benefices, which were withdrawn from him on the death of Lorenzo de’ Medici in 1492; died two years later. He wrote 352 numerous Latin poems, and, in Italian, lyrics, stanzas in praise of a tournament in which Giuliano, Lorenzo’s brother, had taken part, and the Orfeo, a lyrical drama. He perfected the ottava rima; was among the first scholars of the Renaissance, and a poet of unfailing artistry.
[For a near-contemporary's assessment of his worth, see Angelo Poliziano, by Paolo Giovio, in An Italian Portrait Gallery, translated by F. A. Gragg, on this site. — Elf.Ed.]
POEMS
[109]MAIDENS, I found myself one morn serene
Of middle May within a garden green.
Violets bloomed round about and lilies too
In verdant grass and buds of every hue,
Azure and gold and purest white and red,
Whereat to gather them my fingers sped,
That I might deck therewith my flaxen hair
And weave a garland for my forehead fair
But when I’d well-night culled a lapful, lo,
I saw the roses multi-coloured, so
I ran to fill my skirts with them and they
Breathed such rare fragrancy that straight away
I felt awaken in this heart of mine
Tender desire and happiness divine.
To savour the sweet roses I was fain,
But to describe their loveliness were vain;
Some I beheld just bursting into flower,
Some still in bud, some who had spent their dower:
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Then Love said unto me: “Go, gather them
Thou seest most sweetly blooming on the stem!”
When the rose every petal doth unfold,
When she is tenderest, fairest to behold,
Before her loveliness hath passed its prime,
To set her in a garland it is time.
So, maidens, let us go and pull the rose
When she most sweetly in the garden blows.
I FOUND myself alone, alone one day
Taking my pleasure in a meadow gay.
There’s not a meadow in the world I ween
Where herbs and grasses have so sweet a smell;
I wandered for awhile down pathways green
Till myriad blossoms cast their lovely spell
About me — white, red, every hue pell-mell,
And then I heard a bird uplift his lay.
O very sweetly, tenderly sang he,
Love to the heart of all the world he sped,
Then softly, softly I drew near to see,
I saw that golden were his wings and head,
And every other plume a ruby red,
But back, neck, bosom wore the crystal’s ray
I longed to catch him, for he pleased me well,
But he rose swiftly and away he flew
Back to the nest where he was born; I fell
To following him alone, alone; I knew
That I could take him with the net I threw
Did I but lure him from the woods away
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That I could spread a net for him is true,
But since in song his spirit doth rejoice,
Instead of snares and prison-bars I’ll woo,
So far as I am able, with my voice.
That this sweet bird may have what he enjoys
Is the whole reason why I sing this lay.
I’ MI trovai, fanciulle, un bel matino
di mezzo maggio in un verge giardino.
Eran d’ intorno violette e gigli
fra l’ erba verda, e vaghi fior novelli,
azzurri, gialli, candidi e vermigli:
ond’ io pòrsi la mano a côr di quelli
per adorner e’ mie’ biondi capelli
e cinger di grillanda il vago crino.
Ma poi ch’ i’ ebbi pien di fiori un lembo,
vidi le rose e non pur d’ un colore:
io corsi allor per empier tutto el grembo,
perch’ era sì söave il loro odore
che tutto mi senti’ destar el core
di dolce voglia e d’ un piacer divino.
I’ posi mente: quelle rose allora
mai vi non potre’ dir quant’ eran belle:
quale scoppiava dalla boccia ancora,
qual’ erano un po’ passe e qual novelle,
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amor mi disse allor: “Va, cô’ di quelle
che più vedi fiorite sullo spino.”
Quando la rosa ogni suo’ foglia spande,
quando è più bella, quanda è più gradita,
allora è buona a mettere in grillande,
prima che sua bellezza sia fuggita:
sicchè, fanciulle, mentre è più fiorita,
cogliam la bella rosa del giardino.
I’ MI trovai un dì tutto soletto
in un bel prato per pigliar diletto.
Non credo che nel mondo sia un prato
dove sien l’ erbe de sì vaghi odori.
Ma quand’ i’ fu’ nel verde un pezzo entrato,
mi ritrovai fra mille vaghi fiori
bianchi e vermigli e di mille colori,
fra’ quai senti’ cantare un augelletto.
Era il suo canto sì söave e bello,
che tutto ’l mondo innamorar facea.
I’ m’ accostai pian pian per veder quello;
vidi che ’l capo e l’ ale d’ oro avea;
ogni altra penna di rubin parea,
ma ’l becco di cristallo e ’l collo e ’l petto.
I’ lo volli pigliar, tanto mi piacque;
ma tosto si levò per l’ aria a volo,
e ritornossi al nido ove si nacque:
i’ mi son messo a seguirlo sol solo,
ben crederei pigliarlo ad un lacciolo,
s’ i’ lo potessi trar fuor del boschetto.
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I’ gli potrei ben tender qualche rete:
ma da poi che ’l cantar gli piace tanto,
sanz’ altra ragna o sanz’ altra parete
mi vo’ provar di pigliarlo col canto.
E questa è la cagion per ch’ io pur canto,
che questo vago augel, cantando, alletto.