German suffering

Andreas Gryphius
(1616-64)

Tränen des Vaterlands

Wir sind doch nunmehr ganz, ja mehr denn ganz verheeret!
Der frechen Völker Schar, die rasende Posaun,
Das von Blut fette Schwert, die donnernde Karthaun
Hat aller Schweiß und Fleiß und Vorrat aufgezehret.

Die Türme stehn in Glut, die Kirch ist umgekehret,
Das Rathaus liegt im Graus, die Starken sind zerhaun,
Die Jungfraun sind geschänd't, und wo hin nur schaun,
Ist Feuer, Pest und Tod, der Herz und Geist durchfähret.

Hier durch die Schanz und Stadt rinnt allzeit frisches Blut;
Dreimal sin's schon sechs Jahr, als unserer Ströme Flut,
Von Leichen fast verstopft, sich langsam fortgedrungen.

Doch schweig ich noch von dem, was ärger als der Tod,
Was grimmer denn die Pest und Glut und Hungersnot:
Daß auch der Seelen Schatz so vielen abgezwungen.

We are now completely - no, more than completely - devastated! Troops of thugs, blaring trumpets, swords soaked in blood, and thundering cannons have consumed all the fruits of sweat and diligence and industry.

Towers burning, churches overturned, city halls cowering in fright, strong men shattered, maidens violated, and wherever we look, fire, plague, and death pierce our heart and soul.

Fresh blood runs continually through trench and town; three times in the last six years, our stream's flow has almost stopped - clogged solid with corpses.

But I can barely talk about what's more troubling than death, more dismal than plague and arson and famine: - that all hope of heaven has been snatched from so many souls.

I: born in flight, breathing the smoke of war,
ringed round with fire and steel, my father's care,
my mother's pain, was thrust into the light
as my land sank in angry, burning night.
I saw the world, and soon I looked away,
since all its terrors met me on one day.
Though I died young, if only days are told,
count up my fears, and I was very old.

(Translation by Sheenagh Pugh )

French Valor

Charles Vion de Dalibray
(1600-50)

Sonnet bachique

Je ne vais point aux coups exposer ma bedaine
Moi qui ne suis connui ne d'Armand ni du Roi;
Je veux savoir combien un poltron comme moi
Peut vivre n'étant point soldat ni capitaine.

Je mourrais, s'il fallait qu'au milieu d'une plaine
Je fuisse estropié de ce bras dont je bois;
Ne me conte donc plus qu'on meurt autant chez soit
A table, entre les pots, qu'où ta valeur te mène.

Ne me conte donc plus qu'en l'ardeur des combats
On se rend immortel par un noble trépas,
Cela ne fera point que j'aille à l'escarmouche.

Je veux mourir entier, et sans gloire et sans nom,
Et crois-moi, cher Clindor, si je meurs par la bouche,
Que ce ne sera pas par celle du canon.

Convivial sonnet

I'm not going to expose my paunch to danger; neither Armand [i.e. Cardinal Richelieu] nor the king know me; I want to find out just how long a coward like me  can live without being a soldier or a captain.

I'd just die if in the middle of some battlefield, my drinking arm were mangled; so don't tell me that I'm as likely to die at the dinner table in my pots, as where courage would lead me.

Don't tell me that in the heat of battle I could become immortal by a noble death - I still won't rush out to a skirmish.

I want to die all in one piece, without glory or distinction, And - believe me, dear Clindor - if some orifice kills me, it won't be the mouth of a canon.

Spanish losses

Francisco de Quevedo
(1580-1645)

          Miré los muros


Miré los muros de la patria mía,
si un tiempo fuertes ya desmoronados
de la carrera de la edad cansados
por quien caduca ya su valentía.

Salíme al campo: vi que el sol bebía
los arroyos del hielo desatados,
y del monte quejosos los ganados
que con sombras hurtó su luz al día.

Entré en mi casa: vi que amancillada
de anciana habitación era despojos,
mi báculo más corvo y menos fuerte.

Vencida de la edad sentí mi espada,
y no hallé cosa en que poner los ojos
que no fuese recuerdo de la muerte.
 

I saw the ramparts of my native land
One time so strong, now dropping in decay,
Their strength destroyed by this new age's way
That has worn out and rotted what was grand.
I went into the fields; there I could see
The sun drink up the waters newly thawed;
And on the hills the moaning cattle pawed,
Their miseries robbed the light of day for me.

I went into my house; I saw how spotted,
Decaying things made that old home their prize;
My withered walking-staff had come to bend.
I felt the age had won; my sword was rotted;
And there was nothing on which to set my eyes
That was not a reminder of the end.

(translation by John Masefield)

Italy: - a prey for invaders

Italia, Italia, O tu cui feo la sorte,
Dono infelice di bellezza, ond' hai
Funesta dote d'infiniti guai
Che in fronte scritti per gran doglia porte.

Italia! O Italia! thou who hast
The fatal gift of beauty, which became
A funeral dower of present woes and past,
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame,
And annals graved in characters of flame

(Translation by Byron)