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Or che il dover m'astringe, In scelte e corte rime Grato mostrarmi a qual onor sublime, Di cui ci ricolmaste, o prence eccelso, Ne' miei pensieri immerso Ricerco un buon concetto. Rumino colla mente, Penso, ripenso, e poi non trovo niente. Febo e le Muse in mio soccorso imploro; Compariscono tutte a me dinanzi, Confuse in volto e colle cetre infrante. D'un simile scompiglio Le chiedo la ragion, tacer le miro, E dopo mille al più sospir cocenti Una così ripose: Riverendo pastor, t'accheta, e in simil Giorno non obbligarci a dire il nostro Scorno; sulle rive della Salza ogni Nostro potere, ogni saper fu crine Da quella luce onde il suo prence è cinto. Tali e contanti sono Di Sigismondo i merti, Che i nostri ingegni incerti, Non sanno qual riverendo cor. Se la pietà si canta; La giustizia non cede, Ch'ogni virtù, riverendo, Siede in trono suo cor.
Text Authorship:
- by Anonymous / Unidentified Author [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756 - 1791), "Or che il dover . . . Tali e cotani sono", K. 36, K. 33i (1766) [ tenor, orchestra ] [sung text checked 1 time]
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- FRE French (Français) (Guy Laffaille) , "Maintenant que mon devoir... Tels et si nombreux sont", copyright © 2024, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this page: John Versmoren
This text was added to the website: 2004-07-12
Line count: 28
Word count: 150
Maintenant que mon devoir m'oblige, Dans des rimes choisies et brèves, À montrer ma gratitude pour l'honneur sublime, Dont vous nous avez comblés, ô prince illustre, Plongé dans mes pensées, Je cherche une bonne idée. Je rumine avec mon esprit, Je pense, je repense, mais je ne trouve rien. J'implore l'aide de Phébus et des Muses ; Elles apparaissent toutes devant moi, Le visage confus et leurs lyres brisées. Je leur demande la raison d'un tel désordre, Je les regarde se taire, Et après mille soupirs brûlants, L'une répond enfin : Vénérable poète, apaise-toi, et en un tel Jour, ne nous force pas à révéler Notre honte ; sur les rives de la Salza, tout Notre pouvoir, tout notre savoir n'est rien Face à cette lumière qui entoure son prince. Tels et si nombreux sont Les mérites de Sigismond Que nos esprits incertains Ne savent comment révérer son cœur. Si l'on chante sa pitié, La justice ne cède en rien, Car toute vertu, Excellence, Trône dans son cœur.
Text Authorship:
- Translation from Italian (Italiano) to French (Français) copyright © 2024 by Guy Laffaille, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
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Based on:
- a text in Italian (Italiano) by Anonymous/Unidentified Artist
This text was added to the website: 2024-10-04
Line count: 28
Word count: 165