Poem of the Week 2024/15

They Mock Me for Planting Trees at My Age

Seventy, and still planting trees. . . 

Don't laugh at me, my friends.

Of course I know I'm going to die.

I also know I'm not dead yet.

– Yuan Mei, translated by JP Seaton

This pellucid poem doesn't really call for much commentary, I think, as it elegantly sums up, in just four lines, a situation, a conventional social reaction, & the narrator's defiant wisdom, part of the great tradition of carpe diem poetry. So here's a variant translation of the same poem:

If at seventy I still plant trees,

Lookers-on, do not laugh at my folly.

It is true of course that no one lives forever;

But nothing is gained by knowing so in advance.

– Yuan Mei, translated by Arthur Waley

Unfortunately in my ignorance of Mandarin, I can't comment on how closely either version hews to the eighteenth-century original. The gist of both translations is the same, but with some differing nuances: In the Seaton, the poet addresses his friends, in the Waley, the more general lookers-on (who may or may not be well-intentioned in their views of the old man, while friends, though perhaps lacking in understanding of why he is planting trees he is unlikely to see grow to maturity, are presumably basically accepting in their views of him & his actions). In the third line of the Seaton, the knowledge of looming mortality is much more personal: Of course I know I'm going to die. In the Waley, It is true of course that no one lives forever is much more indirect – the abrupt honesty of die vs the indirect truth that no one lives forever, the straightforwardness of Of course I know against the more genially philosophical proposition that It is true of course, the first-person I against the third-person no one. You get the same contrast in the two treatments of the final line: the Seaton more personal & defiant, the Waley more abstract & stoic. I have no preference between the two approaches; a single poem in Mandarin has fructified into two convincing versions in English.

The Seaton translation is from I Don't Bow to Buddhas: Selected Poems of Yuan Mei, translated from the Chinese & with an introduction by J P Seaton. In his introduction, Seaton recommends Waley's biography Yuan Mei: Eighteenth Century Chinese Poet, which is where I got the Waley translation.

Poem of the Week 2016/21

Dido & Aeneas meet again

Along with these, still nursing her raw wound,
Dido of Carthage strayed in the great forest.
As soon as the Trojan came close and made out
Her dimly wavering form among the shadows,
He was like one who sees or imagines he has seen
A new moon rising up among the clouds
On the first day of the month; there and then
He wept and spoke these loving, tender words:
"Unhappy Dido! So the news I got was true,
That you had left the world, had taken a sword
And bade your last farewell. Was I, O was I to blame
For your death? I swear by the stars, by the powers
Above and by any truth there may be under earth,
I embarked from your shore, my queen, unwillingly.
Orders from the gods, which compel me now
To travel among shades in this mouldering world,
This bottomless pit of night, dictated
Obedience then as well. How could I believe
My going would devastate you with such grief?
Stay a moment, don't slip out of our sight.
Is there someone you are trying to avoid?
These words I'm saying to you are the last
Fate will permit me, ever."
                                             Pleading like this,
Tears welling up inside him, Aeneas tried
To placate her fiery spirit and soften
Her fierce gaze; but she, averting her face,
Her eyes fixed steadily on the ground, turned
And showed no sign of having heard, no more
Than if her features had been carved in flint
Or Parian marble. At length she swept away
And fled, implacable, into the dappling shadows
Of the grove, where Sychaeus, her husband
In another earlier time, feels for her pain
And reciprocates the love she bears him still;
While Aeneas, no less stricken by the injustice
Of her fate, gazes into the distance after her,
Gazes through tears, and pities her as she goes.

Then he braces himself for the journey still to come
And soon they arrive in the farthest outlying fields, . . .

Virgil, Aeneid, Book VI, ll 604 - 643, translated by Seamus Heaney

This is from the newly published translation of Book VI of Virgil's Aeneid by the late Seamus Heaney. Book VI describes the visit of the wandering Aeneas (the Trojan in the third line of this excerpt) to the Underworld. There, among others of the dead, he encounters Dido, whom he loved and (at the command of the gods, who wanted Rome to be founded) left. She killed herself as his ships sailed off.

This dignified translation can be read as an addendum to Poem of the Week 2015/23, which gives the Latin for this passage as well as several other English versions (H R Fairclough for Loeb, Google Translate, Sarah Ruden, Robert Fagles, Robert Fitzgerald, C Day Lewis, and Dryden).

Poem of the Week 2016/11

Saint Ite's Song

Jesukin
stays with me day out, day in;
no loutish priest-spawned lodger he
but my own dear Jesukin.

I did not get this wounded heart
from fostering just anyone;
Jesu and his heavenly gang
curl up with me when day is done.

Jesukin gives me every good
and he gets a just return;
you try praying to any other
and in eternity you'll burn.

No Partholán, Aedh or corner boy
is nurtured in my secret shade
but Jesu, bright angel-headed
son of the Judaean maid.

Sons of puffed-up priests and chiefs
plead for my sweet fostering
but how can I have time for them
when all my care is Jesukin?

You owe your most tuneful praise,
you girls with tender voices,
to Him who reigns in heaven's height
– and under my pierced breast rejoices.

attributed to Saint Ite, translation/adaptation by Patrick Crotty

In honor of St Patrick's Day this Thursday, here is an ancient Irish poem attributed to St Ite (or Ita), who was born about one hundred years after Patrick was. Born in what is now County Waterford and baptized Deirdre, her name was later changed to Ita(e), which means thirst for holiness. Like many early female saints, she had to battle against her parents in order to avoid being married off. She became the leader of a community of similar women and was renowned for her austere way of life as well as her generous devotion to education and the spiritual guidance of others (hence one of the affectionate nicknames attached to her: foster mother of the saints of Erin). The usual miracles were attached to her legend as time went on; one of them, referenced in this poem, is that the infant Jesus came to her and allowed her to nurse him. She is fulfilling a traditional female role, but in a way that marks her off from others: exempt from the usual round of marriage and childbirth, she is granted a spiritual equivalent (perhaps an indication that the normal pleasures and ecstasies of life are not alien to the saints, but that grace encompasses all of life).

In his introduction to The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry, Crotty specifically mentions this poem as one in which he has tried to recreate the original effect of an ancient work, rather than offer a more literal and necessarily antiquarian-sounding version, so this may be more of a re-creation than a faithful reproduction. I like the affectionate diminutive Jesukin, and Crotty intertwines her affection for her Jesukin with a rather scornful rejection of more ordinary suitors (Partholán and Aedh are Gaelic male names, possibly aristocratic, and a corner boy is, reasonably enough, a raffish lad who spends his time lounging on street corners – personifications of the regular romances she has renounced in favor of following her own road). She rejects these sons of puffed-up priests and chiefs and at the end calls on her community of women to join in hymning the praise of Jesus, while also reminding them of her special relationship with him: the child who under my pierced breast rejoices. I'm not really sure about the references here to Ita's wounded heart and pierced breast – I don't know if these are symbolic references to a heart pierced by suffering and abnegation, or if we're supposed to take them literally, as replications of Jesus's wounds on the cross. But in my research on St Ita I haven't come across any references to such wounds being attributed to her, though plenty of other miracles and manifestations of divine favor are, and as far as I know the first saint to receive the stigmata was Francis of Assisi, centuries later.

Below is another version of Ita's chant. This one was translated by Chester Kallman, who is probably best remembered these days for his co-authorship, with W H Auden, of the libretto to Stravinsky's The Rake's Progress. This lyric was done for a different composer, Samuel Barber, as part of his wonderful song cycle Hermit Songs. You can see similar bones underlying this version and the one given above. Unlike Crotty, who tries to present the old poem as if new-born, Kallman deliberately uses archaic language to give a sense of a poem coming from a different time and place: for instance, churl (a variant of the archaic carl), which here means a person of low degree or a peasant, rather than a rude or mean-spirited man, which is the word's current meaning. This transformation occurred by the same process that turned clown from a rustic to a comic entertainer: language, which often evolves fastest and gets written down in urban and literary centers, does not grant dignity to the country classes (recognizing actual shepherds, rather than idealized Arcadians, as fit subjects for poetry was one of the great revolutions wrought by Wordsworth and the other Romantic poets).

Saint Ita's Vision

"I will take nothing from my Lord," said she,
"unless he gives me His Son from Heaven
In the form of a Baby that I may nurse Him."
So that Christ came down to her in the form
of a Baby – and then she said:

"Infant Jesus at my breast
Nothing in this world is true
Save O tiny nursling, You.
Infant Jesus at my breast
By my heart ev'ry night
You I nurse are not
A churl but were begot
On Mary the Jewess by Heaven's Light.
Infant Jesus at my breast
what King is there but You who could
Give everlasting Good?
wherefore I give my food.
Sing to Him, maidens, Sing your best
There is none that has such right
to your song as Heaven's King
who ev'ry night
Is Infant Jesus at my breast,"

attributed to Saint Ita, translated by Chester Kallman

As mentioned earlier, my source for the first version of the poem is The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry, edited by Patrick Crotty; it looks as if there is a paperback version now, which I assume is the same as the hardback I have. The text for the Kallman translation is from the booklet for the Bridge Records CD Leontyne Price & Samuel Barber in Concert, an invaluable release which contains (among other things) a recording of the world premiere performance of Barber's Hermit Songs, given at the Library of Congress in 1953, with Price as the soloist and Barber on piano.

Poem of the Week 2016/5

First we'll have the French original (this is sixteenth-century French, so don't panic if it looks different from your remembered high school textbooks or even what you picked up in that university year abroad).

Sonnet XIX

Diane estant en l'espesseur d'un bois,
Apres avoir mainte beste assenee,
Prenoit le frais, de Nynfes couronnee:
J'allois resvant comme fay maintefois.

Sans y penser: quand j'ouy une vois,
Qui m'apela, disant, Nynfe estonnee,
Que ne t'es tu vers Diane tournee!
Et me voyant sans arc & sans carquois,

Qu'as tu trouvé, o compagne, en ta voye,
Qui de ton arc & flesches ait fait proye!
Je m'animay, respons je, à un passant,

Et lui getay en vain toutes mes flesches
Et l'arc apres: mais lui les ramassant
Et les tirant me fit cent & cent bresches.

Louise Labé

Next we have two contemporary American translations:

Diana, retired in the depth of the woods,
Having just hunted down many a stag,
Was taking the air, her Nymphs at her back:
I wandered by in my usual dreamy mood,

When I heard a voice call out to me, now
Saying: O Nymph who looks so astonished,
Why did you not turn to glimpse the goddess?
Seeing me without quiver, without bow:

Whom did you meet, dear friend, upon your way,
Who took your bow & arrow as their prey?
I took aim, said I, at some passerby,

And hurled my arrows at him, all in vain,
And then my bow; but gathering these to his side,
He fired, welcoming me to a world of pain.

Louise Labé, translated by Richard Sieburth

*************

[A Meeting with Diana]

Diana, standing in the clearing of a wood
after she had hunted her prey and shot it down,
breathed deep. Her nymphs had woven her a green crown.
I walked, as I often do, in a distracted mood,
not thinking – when I heard a voice, subdued
and quiet, call, "Astonished nymph, don't frown,
have you lost your way to Diana's sacred ground?"
Since I had no quiver, no arrows, it pursued,
"Dear friend, who were you meeting with today?
Who has taken your bow and arrows away?"
I said, "I found an enemy on the path,
and hurled my arrows at him, but in vain –
and then my bow – but he picked them up in wrath,
and with my arrows shot back hundreds of kinds of pain."

Louise Labé, translated by Annie Finch

In her brief (twenty-four poem) sonnet sequence, Labé is both playing in a sophisticated way with classical and Petrarchean traditions of love poetry and writing emotionally direct poetry. This sonnet has in its background the classical myth, extremely popular in the Renaissance, of Diana and Actaeon. He was a princely young hunter who inadvertently stumbled on Diana, virgin goddess of the hunt, and her nymphs bathing naked. Though he was innocent of any voyeuristic intent, Diana (in the arbitrary way of the gods) punished him by turning him into a stag. His own dogs tore him to pieces.

In this poem, the innocent human wanderer is intruded upon by Diana, who has been out hunting when she stumbles upon the poet. The goddess plaintively asks why she is no longer seeking Diana's company, and further, why she no longer has her bow and arrows. Wandering from the company of the virgin huntress is our hint that the poet has fallen in love. And indeed, the poet came across a passerby and, in the style of Cupid, shot her arrows at him, though with less success than the ruthless little god; the untouched youth gathered her arrows and bow and used them to shoot back at her, causing her the endless pains of love. In a witty reversal of Actaeon's punishment, in this case it is the mortal man who has destroyed the votary of the goddess.

Both translations gesture towards preserving the original rhyme scheme. And both have the poet hurling her arrows at the youth, which may be faithful to the original but reads oddly in English. You can hurl a javelin or a rock, but you shoot arrows. Finch preserves the cumulative effect of the and / and / and at the beginning of the last three lines, but oddly makes the encounter between lover and love-object much more violent than seems warranted by the original: Sieburth translates un passant as some passerby, which seems closer than Finch's an enemy. I also don't see where she's getting that he picked up the bow and arrows in wrath. The poet's pain is more likely caused by indifference or uncertainty; the images of lover / beloved as hunter / hunted and of love as a physical wounding are tropes that don't need to be justified by some alleged enmity. Sieburth's He fired, welcoming me to a world of pain loses the specificity and closer translation of Finch's hundreds of kinds of pain, but fired brings with it a nice sense of the flames of love, and welcoming me to a world of pain conveys the nice ambiguity of the onset of love here, which is both welcoming and a cause of immense pain. I do love Finch's green crown woven by the nymphs; green seems like a reasonable clarification of what type of crown was made by these nymphs wandering the woods.

The first translation is from Louise Labé: Love Sonnets & Elegies, translated by Richard Sieburth with a preface by Karin Lessing, in the NYRB Poets series. The second translation is from Louise Labé: Complete Poetry and Prose, edited with critical introductions and prose translations by Deborah Lesko Baker and poetry translations by Annie Finch, in the University of Chicago Press series The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe. Both editions are bilingual.

Poem of the Week 2015/29

Achilles rebukes his horses and the prophetic horse answers back x 9

Last week's poem was Keats's memorial to the sense of revelation he felt when he first read George Chapman's Elizabethan translation of Homer, so I thought for this week I would post an excerpt from that version, which I suspect most of us have not read. I have not, though I've had it sitting on the shelves for a very long time – since 1999, according to Amazon, and I don't know if I like it or not that they tell you how long ago you bought something which you still haven't read – and yet I go on buying, and new books get piled on top of the old, and I fool myself that I will get to each one eventually. We all have our ways of pretending we're immortal.

In addition to the Chapman, I have eight other versions of this same passage. I've also added a label, translation, if you want to see the other entries in which I compare different versions of one poem.

I took the photos at the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Greek and Roman galleries.

The story so far is this: Achilles, infuriated by the arrogant treatment of him by the Greek leader Agamemnon, has retreated to his tents and refuses to fight. Without their greatest warrior, the Greeks are at a disadvantage on the battlefield, and the Trojans come close to attacking their ships. Achilles still refuses to fight, but his beloved friend Patroclus persuades Achilles to allow him to wear his distinctive armor, hoping thereby to fool the Trojans into thinking the great warrior is on the field. With the assistance of Apollo, Hector kills Patroclus, thinking he is Achilles, and after a struggle the Greeks capture the body and bring it back to the tents. Angry, remorseful, and thirsting for revenge, Achilles rejoins the battle. After he mounts his chariot, he rebukes his horses (which are of divine origin) for abandoning the corpse of Patroclus on the battlefield. One of the horses, abruptly given the power of speech by Hera, rejects the accusation and, underlining the role of the gods and Fate in the war, foretells the rapidly approaching death of Achilles himself. The horse's power of speech is then abruptly taken away by the Furies. Achilles responds that he already knows he is doomed to die at Troy, but before that happens he will give the Trojans their fill of his anger.

This passage is at the end of Book 19. Here are some useful things to know: the horses Xanthos and Balios (whose names refer to the color of their coats, and are translated in some of the passages below) are the offspring of the harpy Podarge and Zephyrus, the god of the west wind (some versions of their story give Zeus as their father). They are immortal. Danaans and Argives are terms Homer uses to refer to the Greeks. The Furies are also known as the Erinyes. The son of Leto is Apollo. (The Latin version of her name, used by Chapman, is Latona; some translators use Latin versions of the names, some Greek, and some transliterate the Greek differently.) Interestingly, given Apollo's role in his impending death, Achilles mounting his chariot is himself compared to Apollo the sun god, which gives a vivid sense of the glory and power seen in Achilles. Links to the translations (if you wish to buy them and I hope you do) are in the translators' names.

First we have Chapman:

       [. . . ] The fight's seate last Achilles tooke behind,
Who lookt so arm'd as if the Sunne, there falne from heaven, had shin'd –
And terribly thus charged his steeds: "Xanthus and Balius,
Seed of the Harpye, in the charge ye undertake of us,
Discharge it not as when Patroclus ye left dead in field.
But when with bloud, for this daye's fast observ'd, Revenge shall yeeld
Our heart satietie, bring us off." Thus since Achilles spake
As if his aw'd steeds understood, twas Juno's will to make
Vocall the pallat of the one, who, shaking his faire head
(Which in his mane (let fall to earth) he almost buried),
Thus Xanthus spake: "Ablest Achilles, now (at least) our care
Shall bring thee off; but not farre hence the fatall minutes are
Of thy grave ruine. Nor shall we be then to be reprov'd,
But mightiest Fate and the great God. Nor was thy best belov'd
Spoil'd so of armes by our slow pace or courage's empaire.
The best of gods, Latona's sonne that weares the golden haire,
Gave him his death's wound through the grace he gave to Hector's hand.
We, like the spirit of the West that all spirits can command
For powre of wing, could runne him off. But thou thy selfe must go;
So Fate ordaines; God and a man must give thee overthrow."
       This said, the Furies stopt his voice. Achilles, farre in rage,
Thus answerd him: "It fits not thee thus proudly to presage
My overthrow. I know my selfe it is my fate to fall
Thus farre from Phthia; yet that Fate shall faile to vent her gall
Till mine vent thousands." These words usde, he fell to horrid deeds,
Gave dreadful signall, and forthright made flie his one-hov'd steeds.

George Chapman (1611)

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Next is the celebrated translation by Alexander Pope, which displaced Chapman as the standard version in English:

All bright in heav'nly arms, above his squire
Achilles mounts, and sets the field on fire;
Not brighter, Phoebus in th'ethereal way,
Flames from his chariot, and restores the day.
High o'er the host, all terrible he stands,
And thunders to his steeds these dread commands.
       Xanthus and Balius! of Podarges' strain,
(Unless ye boast that heav'nly race in vain)
Be swift, be mindful of the load ye bear,
And learn to make your master more your care:
Thro' falling squadrons bear my slaught'ring sword,
Nor, as ye left Patroclus, leave your Lord.
       The gen'rous Xanthus, as the words he said,
Seem'd sensible of woe, and droop'd his head:
Trembling he stood before the golden wain,
And bow'd to dust the honours of his mane,
When, strange to tell! (So Juno will'd) he broke
Eternal silence, and portentous spoke.
       Achilles! yes! this day at least we bear
Thy rage in safety thro' the files of war:
But come it will, the fatal time must come,
Not ours the fault, but God decrees thy doom.
Not thro' our crime, or slowness in the course,
Fell thy Patroclus, but by heav'nly force;
The bright far-shooting God who gilds the day,
(Confest we saw him) tore his arms away.
No – could our swiftness o'er the wind prevail,
Or beat the pinions of the western gale,
All were in vain – The fates thy death demand,
Due to a mortal and immortal hand.
       Then ceas'd forever, by the Furies ty'd,
His fate-ful voice. Th'intrepid chief reply'd
With unabated rage – So let it be!
Portents and prodigies are lost on me.
I know my fates: To die, to see no more
My much-lov'd parents, and my native shore –
Enough – When heav'n ordains, I sink in night;
Now perish Troy! he said, and rush'd to fight.

Alexander Pope (1743)

The link is to the Penguin edition, which is the one I used, though it seems to be out of print. Other editions might be available as well.

***********************************************

       Xanthus, hark! a voice hath found,
Xanthus of the flashing feet:
Whitearm'd Herè gave the sound.
       "Lord Achilles, strong and fleet!
Trust us, we will bear thee home:
Yet cometh nigh thy day of doom;
No doom of ours, but doom that stands
By God and mighty Fate's commands.
'Twas not that we were slow or slack
Patroclus lay a corpse, his back
All stript of arms by Trojan hands.
The prince of gods, whom Leto bare,
Leto with the flowing hair,
He forward fighting did the deed,
And gave to Hector glory's meed.
In toil for thee, we will not shun
Against e'en Zephyr's breath to run,
Swiftest of winds: but all in vain:
By God and man shalt thou be slain."
       He spake: and here, his words among,
Erinnys bound his faltering tongue.

W E Gladstone (1858)

Yes, this is the Gladstone who served as Prime Minister of England four times during the nineteenth century. Let us pause for a moment and contemplate a world in which someone could both be the Prime Minister of England and write enough worthwhile essays on Homer to have them published in a three-volume collection midway through his career. He did not translate the entire epic, only portions. This excerpt comes from Homer in English, edited by George Steiner with the assistance of Aminadav Dykman, part of the excellent Penguin series Poets in Translation, all of which now sadly seem to be out of print. Though this version is shorter than the other ones given here, I thought it was worth including it. It's interesting to see a translator still using rhyme for Homer in the mid-nineteenth century.

***********************************************

       "Xanthus and Balius both, ye far-famed seed of Podarga!
See that ye bring your master home to the host of the Argives
In some other sort than your last, when the battle is ended;
And not leave him behind, a corpse on the plain, like Patroclus."
       Then, from beneath the yoke, the fleet horse Xanthus addressed him:
Sudden he bowed his head, and all his mane, as he bowed it,
Streamed to the ground by the yoke, escaping from under the collar;
And he was given a voice by the white-armed Goddess Hera.
       "Truly, yet this time will we save thee, mighty Achilles!
But thy day of death is at hand, nor shall we be the reason –
No, but the will of heaven, and Fate's invincible power.
For by no slow pace or want of swiftness of ours
Did the Trojans obtain to strip the arms from Patroclus;
But that prince among Gods, the son of the lovely-haired Leto,
Slew him fighting in front of the fray, and glorified Hector.
But, for us, we vie in speed with the breath of the West-Wind,
Which, men say, is the fleetest of winds; 'tis thou who art fated
To lie low in death, by the hand of a God and a Mortal."
       Thus far he; and here his voice was stopped by the Furies.
Then, with a troubled heart, the swift Achilles addressed him:
       "Why dost thou prophesy so my death to me, Xanthus? It needs not.
I of myself know well, that here I am destined to perish,
Far from my father and mother dear: for all that I will not
Stay this hand from fight, till the Trojans are utterly routed.
       So he spake, and drove with a cry his steeds into battle.

Matthew Arnold (1861)

This is another rendition taken from Homer in English. Arnold, like Gladstone, did not translate the whole epic, but only certain passages as part of his arguments on how Homer should be rendered in English. He lists four main features of Homer's verse that he feels should be the goal of every translator, and since his list is still mentioned when the subject of Homeric translation comes up, here it is: "eminent rapidity; eminent plainness and directness both in vocabulary and syntax; eminent plainness in 'matter and ideas'; eminent nobility." Those might be Steiner's words I'm quoting (it's a little unclear in the headnote to this version), but if so he's summarizing Arnold.

***********************************************

[. . . ]
while behind him Achilleus helmed for battle took his stance
shining in all his armor like the sun when he crosses above us,
and cried in a terrible voice on the horses of his father:
"Xanthos, Balios, Bay and Dapple, famed sons of Podarge,
take care to bring in another way your charioteer back
to the company of the Danaäns, when we give over fighting,
not leave him to lie fallen there, as you did to Patroklos."
       Then from beneath the yoke the gleam-footed horse answered him,
Xanthos, and as he spoke bowed his head, so that all the mane
fell away from the pad and swept the ground by the cross-yoke;
the goddess of the white arms, Hera, had put a voice in him:
"We shall still keep you safe for this time, O hard Achilleus.
And yet the day of your death is near, but it is not we
who are to blame, but a great god and powerful Destiny.
For it was not because we were slow, because we were careless,
that the Trojans have taken the armor from the shoulders of Patroklos,
but it was that high god, the child of lovely-haired Leto,
who killed him among the champions and gave the glory to Hektor.
But for us, we two could run with the blast of the west wind
who they say is the lightest of all things; yet still for you
there is destiny to be killed in force by a god and a mortal."
       When he had spoken so the Furies stopped the voice in him,
but deeply disturbed, Achilleus of the swift feet answered him:
"Xanthos, why do you prophesy my death? This is not for you.
I myself know well it is destined for me to die here
far from my beloved father and mother. But for all that
I will not stop until the Trojans have had enough of my fighting."
       He spoke, and shouting held on in the foremost his single-foot horses.

Richard Lattimore (1951)

***********************************************

 [. . .] at his back Akhilleus
mounted in full armor, shining bright
as the blinding Lord of Noon. In a clarion voice
he shouted to the horses of his father:
"Xánthos and Balíos! Known to the world
as foals of great Podargè! In this charge
care for your driver in another way!
Pull him back, I mean, to the Danáäns,
back to the main body of the army,
once we are through with battle, this time,
no leaving him there dead, like Lord Patróklos!"
To this, from under the yoke, the nimble Xánthos
answered, and hung his head, so that his mane
dropped forward from the yokepad to the ground –
Hêra whose arms are white as ivory
gave him a voice to say:
                                         "Yes, we shall save you,
this time, too, Akhilleus in your strength!
And yet the day of your destruction comes,
and it is nearer. We are not the cause,
but rather a great god is, and mighty Fate.
Nor was it by our sloth or sluggishness
the Trojans stripped Patróklos of his armor.
No, the magnificent god that Lêto bore
killed him in action and gave Hektor glory.
We might run swiftly as the west wind blows,
most rapid of all winds, they say, but still
it is your destiny to be brought low
by force, a god's force and a man's!"
                                                On this,
the Furies put a stop to Xánthos' voice.
In anger and gloom Akhilleus said to him:
"Xánthos, why prophesy my death? No need.
What is in store for me I know, know well:
to die here, far away from my dear father,
my mother, too. No matter. All that matters
is that I shall not call a halt today
till I have made the Trojans sick of war!"
And with a shout he drove his team
of trim-hooved horses into the front line.

Robert Fitzgerald (1974)

***********************************************

The next excerpt, from Christopher Logue's celebrated version, needs a bit of background. Logue, who did not read ancient Greek, is not exactly translating the Iliad, but rather recreating it, and he embraces anachronisms if they will give a contemporary reader a more vivid sense of what's going on. So in the passage below he compares the movement of the horses by saying "as in dreams, or at Cape Kennedy, they rise": dreams signals to us how unreal these grand and powerful animals would look; Cape Kennedy (its name has since reverted to the original Cape Canaveral) was the site of NASA's rocket launches, and so we get a striking image that reminds us that these majestic horses are of celestial origin and that war machines like the chariot were among the most advanced technologies of their day. But the anachronisms are there for us, the contemporary readers, not the people in this ancient world, and Logue reminds us of its differences from our world: for example, though in other versions Achilles mentions the end of the fighting, here he explicitly gives the reason: the fighting had to pause when the day got too dark for the soldiers to see: when twilight makes the armistice.

He mounts.

       The chariot's basket dips. The whip
Fires in between the horses' ears.
And as in dreams, or at Cape Kennedy, they rise,
Slowly it seems, their chests like royals, yet
Behind them in a double plume the sand curls up,
Is barely dented by their flying hooves,
And wheels that barely touch the world,
And the wind slams shut behind them.

"Fast as you are," Achilles says,
"When twilight makes the armistice,
Take care you don't leave me behind
As you left my Patroclus."

       And as it ran the white horse turned its tall face back
And said:
       "Prince,
This time we will, this time we can, but this time cannot last.
And when we leave you, not for dead, but dead,
God will not call us negligent as you have done."

       And Achilles, shaken, says:
"I know I will not make old bones."

And laid his scourge across their racing flanks.

Someone has left a spear stuck in the sand.

Christopher Logue, War Music (1981)

***********************************************

The ellipsis after line 13 below is in the translation. When I've started an excerpt mid-sentence, I've preceded it with an ellipsis in brackets.

          [ . . .] and behind him
Achilles struck his stance, helmed for battle now,
glittering in his armor like the sun astride the skies,
his ringing, daunting voice commanding his father's horses:
"Roan Beauty and Charger, illustrious foals of Lightfoot!
Try hard, do better this time – bring your charioteer
back home alive to his waiting Argive comrades
once we're through with fighting. Don't leave Achilles
there on the battlefield as you left Patroclus – dead!"
       And Roan Beauty the horse with flashing hoofs
spoke up from under the yoke, bowing his head low
so his full mane came streaming down the yoke-pads,
down along the yoke to sweep the ground . . .
The white-armed goddess Hera gave him voice:
"Yes! we will save your life – this time too –
master, mighty Achilles! But the day of death
already hovers near, and we are not to blame
but a great god is and the strong force of fate.
Not through our want of speed or any lack of care
did the Trojans strip the armor off Patroclus' back.
It was all that matchless god, sleek-haired Leto's son –
he killed him among the champions and handed Hector glory.
Our team could race with the rush of the West Wind,
the strongest, swiftest blast on earth, men say –
still you are doomed to die by force, Achilles,
cut down by a deathless god and mortal man!"
       He said no more. The Furies struck him dumb.
But the fiery runner Achilles burst out in anger,
"Why, Roan Beauty – why prophesy my doom?
Don't waste your breath. I know, well I know –
I am destined to die here, far from my dear father,
far from mother. But all the same I will never stop
till I drive the Trojans to their bloody fill of war!"
       A high stabbing cry –and out in the front ranks he drove his plunging stallions.

Robert Fagles (1990)

***********************************************

In the following, the most recent rendition included here, Xanthus address Achilles as huge Achilles. In the other translations, the equivalent phrase is: ablest Achilles (Chapman); Lord Achilles, strong and fleet (Gladstone); mighty Achilles (Arnold); O hard Achilleus (Lattimore); Akhilleus in your strength (Fitzgerald); master, mighty Achilles (Fagles) (Pope and Logue omit the adjective). Huge really struck me here. It's completely unexpected, and unusual, and because of that it conveys and emphasizes the sheer physical size and strength of the legendary hero more vividly than more usual terms like mighty (on the other hand, a word like mighty can also convey a sense of grandeur that doesn't necessarily come with the word huge). Like most of the translators, Verity includes a note explaining his principles, and one is to stick closely to the Greek in preference to trying to give a "poetic" version. If someone knows the original Greek term used, I'd love to hear it.

[ . . . ]
and behind him Achilles mounted, in full armour,
shining brightly in his weaponry like Hyperion the Sun,
and he called to his father's horses with a terrible cry:
"Xanthus and Balios, far-famed children of Podarge!
This time take more care to bring your charioteer back to
the Danaans' soldiery when we have had enough of fighting,
and do not leave him there dead, as you did Patroclus."
       Then from under the yoke the glancing-footed horse Xanthus
spoke to him; it had bent its head down, and all its mane
was drooping to the ground from the yoke-pad beside the yoke,
and the goddess Hera of the white arms had given it speech:
"We shall surely bring you back safe this time, huge Achilles;
but the day of your death is near at hand, and it is not we who
will be its cause, but a great god and your powerful destiny.
It was not through our sloth or carelessness that the Trojans
stripped the armour from the shoulders of Patroclus, but it was
the best of the gods, he whom lovely-haired Leto bore, who
killed him among the front-fighters and gave the glory to Hector.
We two could run with the speed of the West Wind,
which men say is the fastest of all things, but it is your fate
to be beaten down by the might of a god and of a man."
       When it had spoken in this way the Furies silenced its voice;
and swift-footed Achilles, deeply angered, addressed it:
"Xanthus, why do you prophesy my death? There is no need.
I know very well myself that it is my destiny to die here,
far from my dear father and mother; but for all that I shall not
hold back until I have driven the Trojans to eat their fill of war."
       He spoke, and with a yell to the leaders drove out his single-hoofed horses.

Anthony Verity (2011)

Poem of the Week 2015/23

Dido & Aeneas, redux

Last week's excerpt from the Divine Comedy showed us Dante meeting Virgil, who will guide him through Hell and most of Purgatory. Dante's decision to make Virgil his guide exemplifies the special status many accord the great Latin poet (another indication of the great esteem in which he is held: two of the translations below, the Dryden and the Day-Lewis, are by Poets Laureate of England). Hector Berlioz was among those who loved Virgil, and he based his great, epic opera Les Troyens on episodes from The Aeneid. The composer himself never heard his work as he wanted it to be heard, and the opera had to wait a century for a revival to reveal its magnificence. We have had to wait almost half as long for a local performance, so it was exciting news around here when, after years of rumors, San Francisco Opera put it on its schedule at last. So in honor of Dante, Berlioz, and of course Virgil, here is an excerpt from The Aeneid, sort of a sequel to the story of the opera, which ends with Aeneas, under orders from the gods, sailing off to get the Roman Empire started while the frantic Dido kills herself. In this passage, Aeneas is traveling through the underworld (as ever, at the command of the gods) when he sees the wandering spirit of Dido. He attempts to speak to her.

The Sychaeus who appears at the end of this passage is Dido's first husband; he was dead by the time Aeneas (himself a widower) showed up in Carthage. No one thinks of them as widow and widower, though, which is the point of the odd little joke in The Tempest when the elderly counselor Gonzalo refers to her as "widow Dido" (Act II, scene 1, ll 79 - 85).

First the original text from the Loeb Classical Library:

inter quas Phoenissa recens a volnere Dido
errabat silva in magna. quam Troius heros
ut primum iuxta stetit adgnovitque per umbras
obscuram, qualem primo qui surgere mense
aut videt aut vidisse putat per nubila lunam,
demisit lacrimas dulcique adfatus amore est:
"infelix Dido, verus mihi nuntius ergo
venerat exstinctam, ferroque extrema secutam?
funeris heu! tibi causa fui? per sidera iuro,
per superos, et si qua fides tellure sub ima est,
invitus, regina, tuo di litore cessi.
sed me iussa deum, quae nunc has ire per umbras,
per loca senta situ cogunt noctemque profundam,
imperiis egere suis; nec credere quivi
hunc tantum tibi me discessu ferre dolorem.
siste gradum teque aspectu ne subtrahe nostro.
quem fugis? extremum fato, quod te adloquor, hoc est."
talibus Aeneas ardentem et torva tuentem
lenibat dictis animum lacrimasque ciebat.
illa solo fixos oculos aversa tenebat
nec magis incepto voltum sermone movetur,
quam si dura silex aut stet Marpesia cautes.
tandem corripuit sese atque inimica refugit
in nemus umbriferum, coniunx ubi pristinus illi
respondet curis aequatque Sychaeus amorem.
nec minus Aeneas, casu concussus iniquo,
prosequitur lacrimis longe et miseratur euntem.
       Inde datum molitur iter. . . .

Next comes the Loeb translation, which is intended to give you a crib for the Latin. I think they have a more recent edition; you'll note the archaic language used in H R Fairclough's 1916 translation. It's always a dilemma for translators, particularly of Virgil, and particularly in a time like our own that does not have a recognized "grand style" in poetry: how do you both capture Virgil in the language of our time and give some sense of the grandeur and concision of the Latin original? Most of the translators below discuss their different approaches in the introductions to their work, so if you are inspired to read any of the full translations, as I hope you are, it's worthwhile reading the introductions as well.

Among them, with wound still fresh, Phoenician Dido was wandering in the great forest, and soon as the Trojan hero stood nigh and knew her, a dim form amid the shadows – even as, in the early month, one sees or fancies he has seen the moon rise amid the clouds – he shed tears, and spoke to her in tender love: "Unhappy Dido! then was the tale brought me true, that thou wert no more, and hadst sought thy doom with the sword? Was I, alas, the cause of death to thee? By the stars I swear, by the world above, and whatever is sacred in the grave below, unwillingly, O queen, I parted from thy shores. But the gods' decrees, which now constrain me to pass through these shades, through lands squalid and forsaken, and through abysmal night, drove me with their behests; nor could I deem my going thence would bring on thee distress so deep. Stay thy step and withdraw not from our view. Whom fleest thou? The last word Fate suffers me to say to thee is this!"

With such speech amid springing tears Aeneas would soothe the wrath of the fiery, fierce-eyed queen. She, turning away, kept her looks fixed on the ground and no more changes her countenance as he essays to speak than if she were set in hard flint or Marpesian rock. At length she flung herself away and, still his foe, fled back to the shady grove, where Sychaeus, her lord of former days, responds to her sorrows and gives her love for love. Yet none the less, dazed by her unjust doom, Aeneas attends her with tears afar and pities her as she goes.

Thence he toiled along the way that offered itself. . . .

Out of curiosity I ran the Latin through Google Translate, which gave me the following, which helps me appreciate further what human translators do:

Among them, with wound still fresh, Phoenician Dido
and wandered in the great forest. the Trojan hero
as soon as he stood near her and form amid the shadows
an obscure, such as, in the early in the month of
, one sees or thinks he has seen through the clouds the moon,
he let down his tears and with sweet love:
"Unhappy Dido, therefore, a true message
he had been extinguished, and wound extreme?
Alas! You have been the cause? I swear by the stars,
by the gods above, and if that 's true in depths below,
against my will, O queen, thy di shores.
But, by the orders of the gods, which now has to go through these shadows,
squalid and forsaken, and through abysmal night, in divers places,
their behests; neither able to believe
this so great grief to you by my departure.
Stay thy step and withdraw not from our view.
Whom do you fly? is our last chance to say to thee, that is. "
Aeneas, such as burning and grim event
soothe began to weep.
She kept her eyes fixed on
the matter of the attempt and the face, and moved no more,
than if hard flint or Marpesus.
At length she flung herself away and fled
the shady grove, where the former spouse
worries and equals her love.
nor the less, dazed by her unjust doom,
continues tears afar and pities she went.
       Thence he toils along. . . .

The Sarah Ruden translation (2008); in her version, she attempts a line-by-line equivalent of the original:

Phoenician Dido wandered in that broad wood,
Her wound still fresh; and when the Trojan hero
Encountered her and recognized her dim form
Through shadows, as a person sees the new moon
Through clouds – or thinks he sees it – as it rises,
He wept and spoke to her in tender love:
"Poor Dido, then the messenger was right –
You stabbed yourself and brought about your own end?
And it was my fault? By the stars, the high gods,
And any truth below the earth: my queen,
It was against my will I left your country,
And by the orders of the gods, who now
Compel me to pass through this shadowed squalor,
These depths of night. No, I did not believe
That I would bring you so much pain by leaving.
Stay here – don't back away, but let me see you.
Who are you running from? Fate gives this last chance
To speak to you." She only glared in fury
While he was pleading, while he called up tears.
Here eyes stayed on the ground, her face averted,
As changeless in expression, while he spoke,
As granite or a jagged marble outcrop.
At last she darted bitterly away
To the dark forest, where her spouse Sychaeus
Felt for her sorrow and returned her love.
Aeneas too was shaken by her hard fate.
His long gaze and his pitying tears pursued her.
On the appointed path he struggled forward.

The Robert Fagles translation (2006):

And wandering there among them, wound still fresh,
Phoenician Dido drifted along the endless woods.
As the Trojan hero paused beside her, recognized her
through the shadows, a dim, misty figure – as one
when the month is young may see or seem to see
the new moon rising up through banks of clouds –
that moment Aeneas wept and approached the ghost
with tender words of love: "Tragic Dido,
so, was the story true that came my way?
I heard that you were dead . . .
you took the final measure with a sword.
Oh, dear god, was it I who caused your death?
I swear by the stars, by the Powers on high, whatever
faith one swears by here in the depths of the earth,
I left your shores, my Queen, against my will. Yes,
the will of the gods, that drives me through the shadows now,
these moldering places so forlorn, this deep unfathomed night –
their decrees have forced me on. Nor did I ever dream
my leaving could have brought you so much grief.
Stay a moment. Don't withdraw from my sight.
Running away – from whom? This is the last word
that Fate allows me to say to you. The last."

Aeneas, with such appeals, with welling tears,
tried to soothe her rage, her wild fiery glance.
But she, her eyes fixed on the ground, turned away,
her features no more moved by his pleas as he talked on
than if she were set in stony flint or Parian marble rock.
And at last she tears herself away, his enemy forever,
fleeing back to the shadowed forests where Sychaeus,
her husband long ago, answers all her anguish,
meets her love with love. But Aeneas, no less
struck by her unjust fate, escorts her from afar
with streaming tears and pities her as she passes.

From there they labor along the charted path. . . .

The Robert Fitzgerald translation (1983):

Among them, with her fatal wound still fresh,
Phoenician Dido wandered the deep wood.
The Trojan captain paused nearby and knew
Her dim form in the dark, as one who sees,
Early in the month, or thinks to have seen, the moon
Rising through cloud, all dim. He wept and spoke
Tenderly to her:
                           "Dido, so forlorn,
The story then that came to me was true,
That you were out of life, had met your end
By your own hand. Was I, was I the cause?
I swear by heaven's stars, by the high gods,
By any certainty below the earth,
I left your land against my will, my queen.
The gods' commands drove me to do their will,
As now they drive me through this world of shades,
These mouldy waste lands and these depths of night.
And I could not believe that I would hurt you
So terribly by going. Wait a little.
Do not leave my sight.
Am I someone to flee from? The last word
Destiny lets me say to you is this."

Aeneas with such pleas tried to placate
The burning soul, savagely staring back,
And tears came to his eyes. But she had turned
With gaze fixed on the ground as he spoke on,
Her face no more affected than if she were
Immobile granite or Marpesian stone.
At length she flung away from him and fled,
His enemy still, into the shadowy grove
Where he whose bride she once had been, Sychaeus,
Joined in her sorrows and returned her love.
Aeneas still gazed after her in tears,
Shaken by her ill fate and pitying her.

With effort then he took the given way,
and they went on . . . .

The C Day Lewis translation (1952); he too attempts a line-for-line version; his translation was commissioned by the BBC and intended to be read aloud over the radio:

Amongst them, with her death-wound still bleeding, through the deep wood
Was straying Phoenician Dido. Now when the Trojan leader
Found himself near her and knew that the form he glimpsed through the shadows
Was hers – as early in the month one sees, or imagines he sees,
Through a wrack of cloud the new moon rising and glimmering –
He shed some tears, and addressed her in tender, loving tones: –
Poor, unhappy Dido, so the message was true that came to me
Saying you'd put an end to your life with the sword and were dead?
Oh god! Was it death I brought you, then? I swear by the stars,
By the powers above, by whatever is sacred in the Underworld,
It was not of my own will, Dido, I left your land.
Heaven's commands, which now force me to traverse the shades,
This sour and derelict region, this pit of darkness, drove me
Imperiously from your side. I did not, could not imagine
My going would ever bring such terrible agony on you.
Don't move away! Oh, let me see you a little longer!
To fly from me, when this is the last word fate allows us!
Thus did Aeneas speak, trying to soften the wild-eyed,
Passionate-hearted ghost, and brought the tears to his own eyes.
She would not turn to him; she kept her gaze on the ground,
And her countenance remained as stubborn to his appeal
As if it were carved from recalcitrant flint or a crag of marble.
At last she flung away, hating him still, and vanished
Into the shadowy wood where her first husband, Sychaeus,
Understand her unhappiness and gives her an equal love.
None the less did Aeneas, hard hit by her piteous fate,
Weep after her from afar, as she went, with tears of compassion.
Then he passed on the appointed way. . . .

The classic Dryden translation (1697):

Not far from these Phœnician Dido stood;
Fresh from her Wound, her Bosom bath'd in Blood.
Whom, when the Trojan Heroe hardly knew,
Obscure in Shades, and with a doubtful view,
(Doubtful as he who runs thro' dusky Night,
Or thinks he sees the Moon's uncertain Light:)
With Tears he first approach'd the sullen Shade,
And, as his Love inspir'd him, thus he said.
Unhappy Queen! then is the common breath
Of Rumour true, in your reported Death,
And I, alas, the Cause! by Heav'n, I vow,
And all the Pow'rs that rule the Realms below,
Unwilling I forsook your friendly State:
Commanded by the Gods, and forc'd by Fate.
Those Gods, that Fate, whose unresisted Might
Have sent me to these Regions, void of Light,
Thro' the vast Empire of eternal Night.
Nor dar'd I to presume, that, press'd with Grief,
My Flight should urge you to this dire Relief.
Stay, stay your Steps, and listen to my Vows:
'Tis the last Interview that Fate allows!
In vain he thus attempts her Mind to move,
With Tears and Pray'rs, and late repenting Love.
Disdainfully she look'd; then turning round,
But fix'd her Eyes unmov'd upon the Ground.
And, what he says, or swears, regards no more
Than the deaf Rocks, when the loud Billows roar.
But whirl'd away, to shun his hateful sight,
Hid in the Forest, and the Shades of Night.
Then sought Sicheus, thro' the shady Grove,
Who answer'd all her Cares, and equal'd all her Love.
Some pious Tears the pitying Heroe paid;
And follow'd with his Eyes the flitting Shade.
Then took the forward Way, by Fate ordain'd. . . .

Poem of the Week 2015/22

Dante meets Virgil x 10

Dante Alighieri turns 750 this year. He was born in Florence in 1265; the exact date of birth is unknown, but he mentions that it was under the astronomical sign Gemini, which puts him between 11 May and 11 June, so 1 June is the midpoint there, a symmetry which seems suitable for this poet. In his honor, today we have the passage from the opening of the Inferno in which he first encounters Virgil, who will be his guide through Hell and Purgatory (up to the point beyond which even virtuous pagans cannot go).

First comes the original Italian, then ten English-language versions, two of them in prose and eight in verse. Dante wrote his famous epic in terza rima, an interlocking set of rhymes making ever-present the mystic Trinitarian significance of the number three: aba bcb cdc and so forth. Italian is notably richer in rhymes than English, so finding an equivalent for this significant rhyme scheme is a famous challenge, and each translator has a different way of tackling it. Most try to use some version of the original, often relying on what we might call inexact rhymes in order to stay closer to the meaning as well as to avoid a jog-trot sound.

Mentre ch'i' rovinava in basso loco,
       dinanzi a li occhi mi si fu offerto
       chi per lungo silenzio parea fioco.
Quando vidi costui nel gran diserto,
       "Miserere di me," gridai a lui,
       "qual che tu sii, od ombra od omo certo!"
Rispuosemi: "Non omo, omo già fui,
       e li parenti miei furon lombardi,
       mantoani per patrïa ambedui.
Nacqui sub Julio, ancor che fosse tardi,
       e vissi a Roma sotto 'l buono Augusto
       nel tempo de li dèi falsi e bugiardi.
Poeta fui, e cantai di quel giusto
       figliuol d'Anchise che venne di Troia
       poi che 'l superbo Ilïón fu combusto.
Ma tu perché ritorni a tanta noia?
       Perché non sali il dilettoso monte
       ch' è principio e cagion di tutta gioia?"
"Or se' tu quel Virgilio e quella fonte
       che spandi di parlar sì largo fiume?"
       rispuos' io lui con vergognosa fronte.
"O de li altri poeti onore e lume,
       vagliami 'l lungo studio e 'l grande amore
       che m'ha fatto cercar lo tuo volume.
Tu se' lo mio maestro e 'l mio autore,
       tu se' solo colui da cu' io tolsi
       lo bello stilo che m'ha fatto onore. . . . "

Dante, Inferno, Canto 1, ll 61 - 87

The Charles Singleton translation (1970). This is a prose translation meant to provide a helpful scholarly guide to the Italian, which is on the facing page. Each of the three books in this version of the Divine Comedy comes in two volumes; the first has Italian text and English prose translation, and the second has notes. (Most of these editions have notes of some sort explaining Dante's references; annotation has been considered essential to his work from its first appearance). I'm putting this translation first as a guide to what the Italian says, so you can see how the other translators work with it.

While I was ruining down to the depth there appeared before me one who seemed faint through long silence. When I saw him in that vast desert, I cried to him, "Have pity on me whatever you are, shade or living man!"

"No, not a living man, though once I was," he answered me, "and my parents were Lombards, both Mantuans by birth. I was born sub Julio, although late, and I lived at Rome under the good Augustus, in the time of the false and lying gods. I was a poet, and I sang of that just son of Anchises who came from Troy after proud Ilium was burned. But you, why do you return to so much woe? Why do you not climb the delectable mountain, the source and cause of every happiness?"

"Are you, then, that Virgil, that fount which pours forth so broad a stream of speech?" I answered him, my brow covered with shame. "O glory and light of other poets, may the long study and the great love that have made me search your volume avail me! You are my master and my author. You alone are he from whom I took the fair style that has done me honor. . . ."

The Henry Wadsworth Longfellow translation (1867). Dante was little known in (mostly Protestant) America when Longfellow, the writer of American epics, did his blank-verse translation:

While I was rushing downward to the lowland,
       Before mine eyes did one present himself,
       Who seemed from long-continued silence hoarse.
When I beheld him in the desert vast,
       "Have pity on me," unto him I cried,
       "Whiche'er thou art, or shade or real man!"
He answered me, "Not man; man once I was;
       And both my parents were of Lombardy,
       And Mantuans by country both of them.
Sub Julio was I born, though it was late,
       And lived at Rome under the good Augustus,
       During the time of false and lying gods.
A Poet was I, and I sang that just
       Son of Anchises, who came forth from Troy,
       After that Ilion the superb was burned.
But thou, why goest thou back to such annoyance?
       Why climb'st thou not the Mount Delectable,
        Which is the source and cause of every joy?"
"Now, art thou that Virgilius and that fountain
       Which spreads abroad so wide a river of speech?
       I made response to him with bashful forehead.
"O, of the other poets honor and light,
       Avail me the long study and great love
       That have impelled me to explore thy volume!
Thou art my master, and my author thou,
       Thou art alone the one from whom I took
       The beautiful style that has done honor to me. . . ."

The Dorothy L. Sayers translation (1949):

Then, as I stumbled headlong down the track,
       Sudden a form was there, which dumbly crossed
       my path, as though grown voiceless from long lack
Of speech; and seeing it in that desert lost,
       "Have pity on me!" I hailed it as I ran,
       Whate'er thou art – or very man, or ghost!"
It spoke: "No man, although I once was man;
       My parents' native land was Lombardy
       And both my citizenship were Mantuan.
Sub Julio born, though late in time, was I,
       And lived at Rome in good Augustus' days,
       When the false gods were worshiped ignorantly.
Poet was I, and tuned my verse to praise
       Anchises' righteous son, who sailed from Troy
       When Ilium's pride fell ruined down ablaze.
But thou – oh, why run back where fears destroy
       Peace? Why not climb the blissful mountain yonder,
       The cause and first beginning of all joy?"
"Canst thou be Virgil? thou that fount of splendour
       Whence poured so wide a stream of lordly speech?"
       Said I, and bowed my awe-struck head in wonder;
"O honour and light of poets all and each,
       Now let my great love stead me – the bent brow
       And long hours pondering all thy book can teach!
Thou art my master, and my author thou,
       From thee alone I learned the singing strain
       The noble style, that does me honour now. . . ."

The John Ciardi translation (1954):

And as I fell to my soul's ruin, a presence
       gathered before me on the discolored air,
       the figure of one who seemed hoarse from long silence.
At sight of him in that friendless waste I cried:
       "Have pity on me, whatever thing you are,
       whether shade or living man." And it replied:
"Not man, though man I once was, and my blood
       was Lombard, both my parents Mantuan.
       I was born, though late, sub Julio, and bred
in Rome under Augustus in the noon
       of the false and lying gods. I was a poet
       and sang of old Anchises' noble son
who came to Rome after the burning of Troy.
       But you – why do you return to these distresses
       instead of climbing that shining Mount of Joy
which is the seat and first cause of man's bliss?"
       "And are you then that Virgil and that fountain
       of purest speech?" My voice grew tremulous:
"Glory and light of poets! Now may that zeal
       and love's apprenticeship that I poured out
       on your heroic verses serve me well!
For you are my true master and first author,
       the sole maker from whom I drew the breath
       of that sweet style whose measures have brought me honor. . . ."

The Allen Mandelbaum translation (1980):

       While I retreated down to lower ground,
before my eyes there suddenly appeared
one who seemed faint because of the long silence.
       When I saw him in that vast wilderness,
"Have pity on me," were the words I cried,
"Whatever you may be – a shade, a man."
       He answered me: "Not man; I once was man.
Both of my parents came from Lombardy,
and both claimed Mantua as native city.
       And I was born, though late, sub Julio,
and lived in Rome under the good Augustus –
the season of the false and lying gods.
       I was a poet, and I sang the righteous
son of Anchises, who had come from Troy
when flames destroyed the pride of Ilium.
       But why do you return to wretchedness?
Why not climb up the mountain of delight,
the origin and cause of every joy?"
       And are you then that Virgil, you the fountain
that freely pours so rich a stream of speech?"
I answered him with shame upon my brow.
       "O light and honor of all other poets,
may my long study and the intense love
that made me search your volume serve me now.
       You are my master and my author, you –
the only one from whom my writing drew
the noble style for which I have been honored. . . ."

Seamus Heaney, from Dante's Inferno: Translations by 20 Contemporary Poets (1993):

While I was slipping back, about to sink
       back to the depths, I caught sight of one
       who seemed through a long silence indistinct.
When I saw him in that great waste land
       I  cried out to him, "Pity me,
       whatever you are, shade or a living man."
He answered me, "No, not a living man
       though I was once alive, and had Lombards
       for parents, both of them Mantuan.
Although I was born sub Julio, my prime
       was spent in the heyday of the false gods
       when I lived in Rome, in good Augustus' time.
I was a poet, and I sang of that just son
       of Anchises who came out of Troy
       after the burning of proud Ilion.
But why do you face back into misery?
       Why do you not keep on up the sweet hill,
       the source and cause of all felicity?"
"Oh, are you then Virgil, are you the fountainhead
       of that wide river of speech constantly brimming?"
       I answered and for shame kept my head bowed.
"You are the light and glory of other poets.
       O let it avail me now, the long devotion
       that made me love your book and cleave to it.
You are my master, my authority.
       I learned from you and from you alone
       the illustrious style for which they honor me. . . ."

The Robert Pinsky translation (1994); this one has the Italian on the facing page:

While I was ruining myself back down to the deep,
       Someone appeared – one who seemed nearly to fade
       As though from long silence. I cried to his human shape
In that great wasteland: "Living man or shade,
       Have pity and help me, whichever you may be!"
       "No living man, though once I was," he replied,
"My parents both were Mantuans from Lombardy,
       And I was born sub Julio, the latter end.
       I lived in good Augustus's Rome, in the day
Of the false gods who lied. A poet, I hymned
       Anchises' noble son, who came from Troy
       When superb Ilium in its pride was burned.
But you – why go back down to such misery?
       Why not ascend the delightful mountain, source
       And principle that causes every joy?"
"Then are you Virgil? Are you the font that pours
       So overwhelming a river of human speech?"
       I answered, shamefaced. "The glory and light are yours,
That poets follow – may the love that made me search
       your book in patient study avail me, Master!
       You are my guide and author, whose verses teach
The graceful style whose model has done me honor. . . ."

The Robert Durling translation (1996); this is another prose version, meant as a guide through the Italian, which is on the facing page:

While I was falling down into a low place, before my eyes one had offered himself to me who through long silence seemed hoarse.
When I saw him in the great wilderness, "Miserere – on me," I cried to him, "whatever you may be, whether shade or true man!"
He replied: "No a man, I was formerly a man, and my parents were Lombards, Mantuans both by birth.
I was born sub Julio, though it was late, and I lived in Rome under the good Augustus in the time of the false and lying gods.
I was a poet, and I sang of that just son of Anchises who came from Troy when proud Ilion was destroyed by fire.
But you, why do you return to so much suffering? why do you not climb the delightful mountain that is origin and cause of all joy?"
"Now are you that Virgil, that fountain which spreads forth so broad a river of speech?" I replied with shamefast brow.
"O honor and light of the other poets, let my long study and great love avail me, that has caused me to search through your volume.
You are my master and my author, you alone are he from whom I have taken the pleasing style that has won me honor. . . ."

The Robert Hollander & Jean Hollander translation (2000); this also has the Italian on the facing page:

While I was fleeing to a lower place,
before my eyes a figure showed,
faint, in the wide silence.

When I saw him in that vast desert,
"Have mercy on me, whatever you are,"
I cried, "whether shade or living man!"

He answered: "Not a man, though once I was.
My parents were from Lombardy –
Mantua was their homeland.

"I was born sub Julio, though late in his time,
and lived at Rome, under good Augustus
in an age of false and lying gods.

"I was a poet and I sang
the just son of Anchises come from Troy
after proud Ilium was put to flame.

"But you, why are you turning back to misery?
Why do you not climb the peak that gives delight,
origin and cause of every joy?

"Are you then Virgil, the fountainhead
that pours so full a stream of speech?"
I answered him, my head bent low in shame.

"O glory and light of all other poets,
let my long study and great love avail
that made me delve so deep into your volume.

"You are my teacher and my author.
You are the one from whom alone I took
the noble style that has brought me honor. . . ."

The Ciaran Carson translation (2002):

       I too was driven by that lupine brute
       to stagger back, as down a broken stair,
to where the sun becomes irresolute;
       and in that lower place, a shape appeared
       to glide across my vision, pale and mute
from long restraint. As through that wasteland weird
       he skimmed, I cried: "O pity me, you shade,
       or man! Whate'er you be, please make it clear!
"Not man, though formerly a man," he said.
       "My parents, you must know, were Lombards true,
       for both in Mantua were born and bred.
Under Julius I was born, and grew
       to fame in Rome when good Augustus reigned,
       and bogus pagan gods were all we knew.
I was a poet, and to some acclaim
       I sang of bold Anchises' son, who sailed
       from Troy when Ilium went up in flames.
But as for you, why have you left the trail?
       Why look so down? Why don't you climb the Mount
       of Joy, where every happy thing prevails?"
"Are you then Virgil, that superior fount
       which spouts so generous a verbal brook?"
       I bashfully replied to his account.
O you, to whom all other poets look!
       may that long study and great love endure
       which brought me first to delve into your book!"
You are my paragon, my favourite author –
       you, the very one from whom I stole
       the noble style that critics praise me for. . . ."