From An Anthology of Italian Poems 13th-19th Century selected and translated by Lorna de’ Lucchi, Alfred A. Knopf, New York; 1922; pp. 92-98, 351.
[For purists, the Italian text of the poems follows the English translation.]
FRANCO SACCHETTI, born at Florence of a Guelf family; a merchant and politician; became one of the Priors of the city; podesta of Bibbiena, San Miniato, and Faenza; Governor of the Florentine Romagna. He wrote a number of characteristic novelle and a quantity of verse, charming ballads and madrigals; also interesting poems called “cacce.” His love poems are of little merit.
ONCE, deep in thought, I, passing ’neath some trees,
Beheld a troop of maidens gathering flowers;
One cried: “Ah look”; another: “Nay, see these,”
“What hast thou there?” “I doubt not lily-showers.”
“And here, I trow, are violets blue.”
A rose — woe’s me, a thorn hath pricked my finger through!”
“Alas, alas!”
What’s that in the grass?”
“A cricket.” “Make haste,
Here are salads to taste.”
“No, no!”
“But it’s so.”
97
“Thee and thee I will show
Where the mushrooms do grow:
And this is the way
For the wild-thyme spray.”
“Come homewards, it darkeneth and soon it will rain,
It lightens, it thunders, hark! vespers again!”
“But it’s early still!”
“Lend an ear if you will.”
“The nightingale, I’ll be bound.”
“I hear a louder sound.”
“ ’Tis strange to me.”
“O what can it be?”
“Where, where?”
“Out there?”
“In the bushes.” Tic, toc.
Ever nearer the knock,
Till a snake crept out:
Then they turned about
In a wild affright:
“Ah me, sorry plight!”
“Alack aday!”
“Flee away!”
Then the rain poured down forlorn,
One slipped, another fell,
One trod upon a thorn,
Bossoms were spilled pell-mell,
Some cast aside, some left to lie,
Most fortunate who could swiftest fly:
And while I watched what they would do
The rain-shower drenched me through and through.
“O VAGHE montanine pasturelle,
d’ onde venite sì leggiadre e belle?
Qual è ’l paese dove nate sète,
che sì bel frutto più che gli altri adduce?
Creature d’ amor vo’ mi parete,
tanto la vostra vista adorna luce!
Nè oro nè argento in voi riluce,
e malvestite parete angiolelle.”
“Noi stiamo in alpe presso ad un boschetto;
povera capannette è ’l nostro sito;
col padre e con la madre in picciol letto
torniam la sera dal prato fiorito,
dove natura ci ha sempre nodrito,
guardando il dì le nostre pecorelle.”
94
“Assai si de’ doler vostra bellezza,
quando tra monti e valli la mostrate;
chè non è terra di sì grande altezza
dove non foste degne et onorate.
Deh, ditemi se voi vi contentate
di star ne’ boschi così poverelle?”
“Più si contenta ciascuna di noi
andar drieto alle mandre alla pastura,
che non farebbe qual fosse di voi
d’ andar a feste dentro a vostre mura.
Ricchezza non cerchiam nè più ventura
che balli, canti e fiori e ghirlandelle.”
Ballata, s’ i’ fosse come già fui,
diventerei pastore e montanino;
e, prima c’ io il dicesse altrui,
serei al loco di costor vicino;
et or direi “Biondella” et or “Martino,”
seguendo sempre dove andasson elle.