Poets Translate Poets: A Hudson Review Anthology (12 page)

For, seeing us march by, assured and strong,

Th

e most unnerved took heart and came along.

Once there, I sent two-thirds of them to hide

In vessels anchored at the harborside;

Th

e rest, their number growing constantly

And full of hot impatience, stay with me

And, for some starlit hours, make no sound

But, speechless, lie in wait upon the ground.

Th

e guards, obeying my command to them,

Hide also, to support my stratagem,

I having dared to claim that it was you

On whose behalf I told them what to do.

At last we see, by the stars’ glimmering light,

A rising tide bring thirty sails in sight,

And soon the surges of the sea escort

Th

e vessels of the Moors into our port.

We let them pass. To them, all seems serene;

On wall or pier no soldier’s to be seen;

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Our utter silence renders them unwise;

Th

ey’re sure that they shall take us by surprise;

Th

ey heave to, drop their anchors, wade to land

And blindly run into the trap we’d planned.

We rise then, and a thousand battle cries

Burst from our lips and echo in the skies.

Our comrades in the ships reply, and come

Forth sword in hand; the Moors are stricken dumb;

Half-disembarked, they’re seized by deep dismay

And, ere they fi ght us, feel they’ve lost the day.

Th

ey’d come to pillage; they encountered war.

We rush them in the shallows and on shore,

And ere they can form ranks or strike a blow,

We cause great rivers of their blood to fl ow.

But soon their princes rally them; they gain

Some courage back; their panic starts to wane;

Th

e shame of being killed without a fi ght

Restores their weakened spirits and their might.

Now resolute, they draw their scimitars;

Our blood and theirs are sacrifi ced to Mars;

River and bank and port are soon no more

Th

an fi elds of carnage and of mingled gore.

How many feats which history might remark

Went unobserved then in the cloaking dark

Where each, sole witness of the deeds he dared,

Had little sense of how the battle fared!

I moved among our forces as their chief,

Bade some advance, to others gave relief,

Took fresh recruits in hand and urged them on,

And could not guess fate’s verdict till the dawn.

Day breaks then, and it’s clear we’ve won the fray;

Th

e Moors look, and their courage drains away;

Seeing new reinforcements at our rear,

Th

eir will to fi ght gives way to mortal fear.

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Th

ey fl y back to their ships in panic, lift

Hoarse cries to heaven, cut themselves adrift ,

And in their wild departure pay no mind

To the two kings whom they have left behind.

Th

eir fear has overcome their loyalty:

Th

e tide, which brought them, takes them back to sea.

Meanwhile their kings fi ght on, helped by a few

Brave followers, all badly wounded, who

To their last drop of blood dispute the fi eld;

In vain I call upon those kings to yield,

But, scimitars in hand, they won’t comply

Till, seeing now that all their soldiers lie

Dead at their feet, they ask for our commander.

I say that I am he, and they surrender.

I send the two of them to you at once,

And the battle ends for want of combatants.

Th

us, happily, we overcame the dire . . .

Act V, Scene 7

i n fa n ta

Chimène, your Princess bids you to receive

Th

is hero from my hands, and cease to grieve.

d on rodr igu e

Forgive me, Sire, if in your court I kneel

To show her the respect and love I feel.

I have not come to claim a prize, Chimène:

I’m here to off er you my head again.

Lady, I shall not cite in this my plea

Th

e laws of combat or the King’s decree.

If all I’ve done has not avenged your sire,

Tell me what satisfactions you require.

Must I confront a thousand rivals more,

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Extend my fame to Earth’s remotest shore,

Eclipse the fabled heroes of the past,

And with my sword make armies fl ee aghast?

If through such feats my crime can be forgot,

I’ll undertake them and achieve the lot;

But if your fi ery honor and your pride

Cannot without my death be satisfi ed,

Don’t send against me any human foes:

Your hands must take my life, for only those

Could hope to vanquish the invincible

And turn this off ered head into a skull.

Pray let my death suffi

ce to punish me,

And do not bar me from your memory,

But keep me in your heart, and so requite

A vengeance that will keep your honor bright,

Saying of me at times, with some regret,

“Had he not loved me, he’d be living yet.”

c h i m è n e

Arise, Rodrigue. Sire, I cannot undo

Th

e love I feel, and have confessed to you.

Rodrigue’s high virtues I cannot gainsay,

And when a king commands, one should obey.

And yet, whatever you have once decreed,

Can you permit this marriage to proceed?

If I obey your orders, as I must,

Shall that compulsion seem entirely just?

If Rodrigue is now essential to the State,

Must I, for salary, become his mate,

And bear an endless guilt because the stains

Upon my hands are from my father’s veins?

d on f e r na n d

Oft en, what seemed at fi rst to be a crime

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Has come to be acceptable in time.

Rodrigue has won you; you are his, and though

Upon this day his valor made you so,

I would abuse your honor if I placed

Your hand in his with an unfeeling haste.

We shall defer the marriage. My words still stand,

And you shall wed, in time, by my command.

Take, if you wish, a year to dry your tears.

For you, Rodrigue, another battle nears.

Now that you’ve thrown the Moors’ invasion back,

Foiling their plans and stemming their attack,

Carry the war to them, taking command

Of all my forces, and lay waste their land.

Th

e name of
Cid
will set them quivering;

Th

ey’ve called you
lord
, they’ll want you for their king.

But mid these deeds, remain her faithful lover;

Return, if may be, still more worthy of her,

Aft er such splendid exploits that for pride

And honor’s sake she’ll gladly be your bride.

d on rodr igu e

To win Chimène, to serve the State and you,

What labors are there that I could not do?

Th

ough to be far from her will mean distress,

Th

at I can hope will be my happiness.

d on f e r na n d

Trust in your valor and my promise, then,

And since you’re loved already by Chimène,

Hope that this scruple, to which we see her cling,

Will yield to time, to courage, and your King.

Richard Wilbur, 2009

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Je a n de L a Fon ta ine
(1621–95)

Th

e Scythian Philosopher

Once a philosopher famed for austerity,

Left Scythia that he might taste luxury

And sailed to Greece where he met in his wanderings,

A sage like the one Virgil has made memorable—

Who seemed a king or god, remote from mundane things,

Since like the gods he was at peace and all seemed well.

Now a garden enabled his life to expand

And the Scythian found him pruning-hook in hand

Lopping here and there what looked unprofi table.

He sundered and slendered, curtailing this and that,

Careful that not a dead twig be spared;

Th

en for care to excess, Nature paid a sure reward.

“But are you not inconsiderate?”

Th

e Scythian inquired. He said, “Is it good

To denude a tree of twigs and leave it scarcely one?

Lay down your pruning-hook; your onslaught is too rude.

Permit time to do what needs to be done:

Dead wood will soon be adrift on the Styx’ dark fl ood.”

Th

e Sage said,—“Remove sere boughs and when they are gone,

One has benefi tted what remain.”

Th

e Scythian returned to his bleak shore,

Seized his own pruning-hook, was at work hour on hour,

Enjoining upon any in the vicinity

Th

at they work—the whole community.

He sheared off whatever was beautiful,

Indiscriminately trimmed and cut down,

Persevering in reduction

Beneath new moons and full

Till none of his trees could bear.

In this Scythian

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We have the injudicious man

Or so-called Stoic, who would restrain

His best emotions along with the depraved

And give up every innocent thing he craved.

As for me, such perverted logic is my bane.

Don’t smother the fi re in my heart which makes life dear;

Do not snuff me out yet. I’m not laid on my bier.

Phoebus and Boreas

Th

e sun and the north wind observed a traveller

Who was cloaked with particular care

Because fall had returned; for when autumn has come,

What we wear must be warm or we dare not leave home.

Both rain and rainbow as the sun shines fi tfully,

Warn one to dress warily

In these months when we don’t know for what to prepare—

An uncertain time in the Roman calendar.

Th

ough our traveller was fortifi ed for a gale,

With interlined cloak which the rain could not penetrate,

Th

e wind said, “Th

is man thinks himself impregnable

And his cloak is well sewn, but my force can prevail

As he’ll fi nd in the blast I create,

Th

at not a button has held. Indeed before I am through,

I may waft the whole mantle away.

Th

e battle could aff ord us amusement, I’d say.

Do you fancy a contest?” Th

e sun said, “I do.

Mere words are unprofi table,

Let us see which can fi rst unfasten the mantle

Protecting the pedestrian.

Begin: I shall hide; you uncloak him if you can.”

Th

en our blower swelled, swallowed what wind he could,

To form a balloon, and with the wager to win,

Made demoniacal din,

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Puff ed, snorted, and sighed till the blast that he brewed

Left ships without a sail and homes without a roof

Because a mantle proved storm-proof.

It was a triumph for the man to have withstood

Th

e onslaught of wind that had rushed in,

As he somehow stood fi rm. Th

e wind roared his chagrin—

A defeated boaster since his gusts had been borne.

Controlling clasp and skirt required dexterity,

But the wind found nothing torn

And must stop punctually.

Th

e cloud had made it cool

Till the sun’s genial infl uence caused the traveller to give way,

And perspiring because wearing wool,

He cast off a wrap too warm for the day

Th

ough the sun had not yet shone with maximum force.

Clemency may be our best resource.

Th

e Schoolboy, the Pedant, and the Man with a Garden

Here was a youth symbolic of the school—

Up to his chin in what would mean the cane,

Fearsomely young and bearing out the rule

Th

at pedants can impair anybody’s brain,

Stealing fruit from a neighbor, old refrain;

Defl owering a tree. In the fall every time,

Pomona’s

gift s to the neighbor were sublime,

Superior to whatever others grew

As seasons led forth their retinue.

Where in spring fi nd the fl owers gardens bore,

Like Flora’s own in bloom at his door?

He saw a boor from the school in the orchard one day,

Who’d got into a fruit-tree and was making it sway—

Wreaking useless damage. Fruit and fl owers. What defense?

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Injuring buds that might later be sustenance,