Leaving, at last, the silences
of your native nest, and the blessed
shades, and the ancient illusion, heaven’s gift,
that, to your eyes, enhances these lonely shores,
fate draws you to the noise
and dust of life: my sister, you learn
the shameful state harsh skies prescribe for us,
you, who in a grave
and mournful time
will add unhappy children
to sad Italy. Provide strong examples
to your offspring. Cruel fate denies
helpful breezes
to human virtue,
nor can a pure soul live in a frail breast.

      You will have wretched
or cowardly sons. Choose the wretched.
Corrupted custom sets a vast gulf
between fate and worth. Ah, the child
born today, in the twilight
of mankind, acquires its life and senses too late.
Birth is fate’s: yours the sovereign
care of the heart, that your sons
will not grow to be friends
of fortune, or playthings of base fear
and hope: then the future ages
will call you happy:
for (sinful custom
of false idle slaves)
dead, we praise the virtue we scorned alive.

      Ladies, our country expects
much from you: and the sweet rays
of your eyes were not granted their power
to tame steel and fire, in scorn, or to harm
the human race. The wise and strong act
and think according to your judgement: and all
that the sun’s bright chariot circles bows to you.
I ask you the reason
for this age of ours. Is it your hands
that quenched the sacred fire
of our youth? Our nature thinned
and broken by you? The mind
sleeping, the will ignoble,
our native courage lacking
in muscle and sinew: is yours the blame?

      Love, if we think truly, is the spur
to noble actions, and beauty the teacher
of deep affections. That spirit must be severed
from love whose heart’s core does not rejoice
when the winds war together, and Olympus
gathers the clouds, and the thunder of the storm
strikes the mountain. O brides,
O virgins, I think that he
who flinches from danger, unworthy
of our country, and sets his heart
his common affections on base things,
moves you to hatred and scorn:
if women’s hearts burn to love
men, and not mere children.

      May you hate to be known
as mothers of a cowardly race. May your children
grow used to bearing the pain and grief
of virtue, and scorning and condemning
all that this shameful age prizes and adores,
live for their country, learning its noble deeds,
and what this land owes to their ancestors.
Just as the sons of Sparta
grew to honour Greece,
among the memories and fame
of ancient heroes:
till the young bride strapped
the sword to her dear one’s side,
only to loosen her dark hair
over his bloodless naked corpse,
returned to her on his intact shield.

      Virginia, your soft cheek
touched by the all-powerful hand
of beauty, and your noble disdain,
troubled the foolish Lord of Rome.
You were pure, and were at that stage
where sweet dreams summon,
when your father’s harsh steel pierced
that white breast,
and willingly you descended
to Erebus. ‘O father,’ she said, ‘let time
loosen and unmake my limbs, prepare
a tomb for me, before an impious
tyrant’s bed possesses me.
And if Rome gains life and strength
from my blood, let me expire.’

      O generous one, though the sun
shone with a greater splendour on you
than it does today, let your prize
and solace be that tomb your sweet native land
honours with tears. See how the Roman people,
alight with a new anger,
gather round your remains. See the dust
befoul the tyrant’s head:
and freedom flare
in forgetful hearts: and ardent Roman arms
advance over defeated lands
from the dark pole to the torrid zone.
So a woman’s fate
stirs eternal Rome
once more, from its deep slumber.