Once in a Lifetime, part 2
To Himself, in the Plague Year
Draft: this translation has not yet been checked against the original by a separate review.
- Written
- 1348
- Place
- Italy
- Language
- Latin (verse)
- Kind of source
- poem
- Reading time
- 2 minutes
- Difficulty
- Challenging
- Intensity
- Medium
“Alas, what am I suffering?” Petrarch begins this poem by asking himself, and then he looks around at a church crowded with coffins, where the bodies of nobles and commoners lie together without honor.
Petrarch, the most famous Italian poet and scholar of his day, wrote dozens of letters in Latin verse, addressed to friends and patrons. This one he addressed to himself. The edition we use prints it in the first book of his verse letters.
The poem belongs to the plague year, 1348. Petrarch names Italy and France as the lands most stricken, and he offers two explanations without choosing between them. He writes as a poet, with images from Roman literature: the Fates cutting the threads of life, Jupiter looking down from an infected sky.
Watch how he moves from what he sees around him to his fear for himself. Notice that he finds no place on land or sea where death cannot follow.
The edited translation, in simplified modern English. Bracketed words were added for clarity; [...] marks a cut. Tap a note number to read the note.
Alas, what am I suffering? Where are the violent fates dragging me back? I see the dying days of the world rush past in headlong flight. All around me I see crowds of young and old on the move. Nowhere is there a safe place to stop. No harbor opens anywhere in the world, and there is no hope of the safety I long for.
Wherever I turn my frightened eyes, funeral after funeral troubles my sight. The churches groan, crowded with coffins. Everywhere the bodies of nobles and commoners lie together, without honor. The last hour of life comes into my mind. I am forced to remember what has befallen me. Alas, I think of the dear company of friends now gone, of our friendly talks, of beloved faces suddenly vanishing, and of the holy ground that never lacks new graves.
The people of Italy groan at this, too weak for so many deaths. France, drained of men and worn out, weeps at it, and so do other nations, under whatever star they lie.
Perhaps it is the anger of God, and I would surely believe our crimes deserve it. Or perhaps it is only some harm from the sky, as nature changes its course. This deadly year has fallen on the human race. It threatens a destruction to weep over, and the thick air1 favors death. Savage Jupiter2 looks down from an infected sky. From there he rains down sickness and grim deaths on the earth. The cruel Fates3 hurry to cut the threads of life, all of them at once, if they could. When I see so many pale faces among the wretched common people, and so many heading for black Tartarus,4 I fear that heaven has given them the power to do what they want.
As I think about these things, I admit, I tremble. I sense death lying in wait for me, close by. Where can I hide my head? Neither sea nor land nor rocks with shady caves offer a refuge to someone running away. Death conquers everything, and it bursts into hiding places that are never safe enough.
Notes
- The belief that disease spread through foul or poisoned air, often from rot or swamps. back
- The king of the Roman gods, here standing for the sky and its influence on the earth. back
- The three goddesses of Roman myth who spin, measure, and cut the thread of each person’s life. back
- The underworld of Roman myth, the place of the dead. back
Heu mihi quid patior? qua me violenta retorquent
Fata retro? Video pereuntia tempora mundi
Praecipiti transire fuga, moventia circum
Agmina conspicio iuvenumque senumque; nec usquam
Tuta patet statio, non toto portus in orbe
Panditur, optatae non spes patet ulla salutis.
Alas for me, what am I suffering? Where do the violent fates twist me back? I see the perishing times of the world pass in headlong flight; I see moving crowds of young and old all around; nor anywhere does a safe station lie open, no harbor in the whole world is opened, no hope of longed-for safety lies open.
Alas, what am I suffering? Where are the violent fates dragging me back? I see the dying days of the world rush past in headlong flight. All around me I see crowds of young and old on the move. Nowhere is there a safe place to stop. No harbor opens anywhere in the world, and there is no hope of the safety I long for.
Funera crebra quidem, quocunque paventia flecto
Lumina, conturbant aciem: perplexa feretris
Templa gemunt, passimque simul sine honore cadaver
Nobile plebeiumque iacet. Subit ultima vitae
Hora animum; casusque meos meminisse coactus,
Heu! charos abiisse greges, et amica retracto
Colloquia, et dulces subito vanescere vultus,
Telluremque sacram assiduis non deesse sepulchris.
Frequent funerals indeed, wherever I turn my fearful eyes, confuse my sight; the temples groan, crowded with biers, and everywhere together without honor the noble and the plebeian corpse lies. The last hour of life comes into my mind; and forced to remember my misfortunes, alas! I recall the dear flocks gone, and friendly conversations, and sweet faces suddenly vanishing, and the sacred earth not lacking for constant graves.
Wherever I turn my frightened eyes, funeral after funeral troubles my sight. The churches groan, crowded with coffins. Everywhere the bodies of nobles and commoners lie together, without honor. The last hour of life comes into my mind. I am forced to remember what has befallen me. Alas, I think of the dear company of friends now gone, of our friendly talks, of beloved faces suddenly vanishing, and of the holy ground that never lacks new graves.
Hoc gemit Italiae populus tot mortibus impar;
Hoc exhausta viris defectaque Gallia plorat;
Hoc aliae, quocunque iacent sub sydere, gentes.
This the people of Italy groans, unequal to so many deaths; this France weeps, exhausted of men and failing; this the other nations, under whatever star they lie.
The people of Italy groan at this, too weak for so many deaths. France, drained of men and worn out, weeps at it, and so do other nations, under whatever star they lie.
Sive est ira Dei, quod crimina nostra mereri
Certe ego crediderim, seu sola iniuria coeli,
Natura variante vices. Hic pestifer annus
Humano generi incubuit, flendumque minatur
Excidium, mortique favet densissimus aer.
Saevus ab infecto prospectat Iupiter axe;
Inde pluit morbos et tristia funera terris,
Staminaque immites properant abrumpere Parcae,
Omnia, si possent, pariter; vereorque superne
Quod cupiunt ne posse datum: tot pallida vulgi
Ora videns miseri, tot Tartara nigra petentes.
Whether it is the wrath of God, which I would surely believe our crimes deserve, or only the injury of the sky, nature varying its turns. This pestilent year has lain upon the human race, and threatens a destruction to be wept, and the very dense air favors death. Savage Jupiter looks out from an infected pole; thence he rains diseases and sad deaths on the lands, and the harsh Parcae hasten to break the threads, all of them, if they could, together; and I fear that from above it has been granted [to them] to be able [to do] what they desire, seeing so many pale faces of the wretched common people, so many heading for black Tartarus.
Perhaps it is the anger of God, and I would surely believe our crimes deserve it. Or perhaps it is only some harm from the sky, as nature changes its course. This deadly year has fallen on the human race. It threatens a destruction to weep over, and the thick air favors death. Savage Jupiter looks down from an infected sky. From there he rains down sickness and grim deaths on the earth. The cruel Fates hurry to cut the threads of life, all of them at once, if they could. When I see so many pale faces among the wretched common people, and so many heading for black Tartarus, I fear that heaven has given them the power to do what they want.
- The belief that disease spread through foul or poisoned air, often from rot or swamps.
- The king of the Roman gods, here standing for the sky and its influence on the earth.
- The three goddesses of Roman myth who spin, measure, and cut the thread of each person’s life.
- The underworld of Roman myth, the place of the dead.
Haec meditans, fateor, trepido, mortisque propinquae
Auguror insidias; ubi nam caput abdere possim,
Nec mare, nec tellus, nec opacis saxa cavernis
Ostendunt profugo; quoniam mors omnia vincit,
Inque parum tutas venit impetuosa latebras.
Thinking these things, I confess, I tremble, and I foresee the ambushes of approaching death; for where I might hide my head, neither sea, nor earth, nor rocks with shady caves show to the fugitive; since death conquers all, and comes violently into hiding places too little safe.
As I think about these things, I admit, I tremble. I sense death lying in wait for me, close by. Where can I hide my head? Neither sea nor land nor rocks with shady caves offer a refuge to someone running away. Death conquers everything, and it bursts into hiding places that are never safe enough.
Page images of the original object or of the printed edition, from the libraries and archives that hold them. The pages shown are copied here where the holder marks them public domain; titles link to the holder's own viewer. Click a page to see it full size.
Rossetti, Poesie minori del Petrarca, vol. 2, Milan 1831
Internet Archive (Google-digitized copy). pp. 80–84. Public domain (published 1831).
The printed edition our text follows, with a facing Italian translation.
New translation from the Latin text of Domenico Rossetti’s edition (Milan, 1831), volume 2, pages 80–84. The opening 33 lines of the poem are included. The verse is translated as prose.
- Original
- Text as printed in the named edition or on the object, read from page images. Edition: Domenico Rossetti, ed., Poesie minori del Petrarca sul testo latino ora corretto, vol. 2 (Milan: Società tipografica de’ classici italiani, 1831), “Epistolarum liber I, epistola XIV: Ad seipsum,” pp. 80–84. Digital text: Internet Archive item bub_gb_EKsDq9lC3OQC (Google-digitized copy), OCR text, extracted by code. Not yet read against the page images. The facing Italian verse translation and the editor’s notes are not copied. Author’s text only.
- Transliterated
- Not needed: the original is in the Latin alphabet
- Close English
- Close translation drafted by Claude (Anthropic), kept as a working draft
- Simplified English
- Drafted by Claude (Anthropic) from the original. Not yet checked by a separate review.
- Editor’s review
- Not yet.
- Specialist review
- Not yet. Readings a specialist should confirm are listed for later review.
- Rights
- Original: public domain. Edition: public domain.
Sources for the notes
- Rossetti, Domenico, ed. Poesie minori del Petrarca sul testo latino ora corretto. Vol. 2. Milan: Società tipografica de’ classici italiani, 1831. Pages 80–84; vol. 3 (1834), table of contents.