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+Project Gutenberg's The Poems of Giacomo Leopardi, by Giacomo Leopardi
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Poems of Giacomo Leopardi
+
+Author: Giacomo Leopardi
+
+Translator: Frederick Townsend
+
+Release Date: September 19, 2006 [EBook #19315]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF GIACOMO LEOPARDI ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Daniel Emerson
+Griffith and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
+http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+THE POEMS OF
+GIACOMO LEOPARDI
+
+TRANSLATED BY
+FREDERICK TOWNSEND
+
+
+  NEW YORK AND LONDON
+  G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
+  The Knickerbocker Press
+  1887
+
+
+  COPYRIGHT BY
+  R. T. TOWNSEND
+  1887
+
+
+  Press of
+  G. P. Putnam's Sons
+  New York
+
+
+  TO M. N. M.
+  SISTER OF THE TRANSLATOR
+  THESE POEMS
+  ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
+  BY THE EDITOR
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+
+Giacomo Leopardi is a great name in Italy among philosophers and
+poets, but is quite unknown in this country, and Mr. Townsend
+has the honor of introducing him, in the most captivating
+way, to his countrymen. In Germany and France he has excited
+attention. Translations have been made of his works; essays have
+been written on his ideas. But in England his name is all but
+unheard of. Six or seven years ago Mr. Charles Edwards published
+a translation of the essays and dialogues, but no version of the
+poems has appeared, so far as I know. Leopardi was substantially
+a poet,--that is to say, he had imagination, sentiment, passion,
+an intense love of beauty, a powerful impulse towards things
+ideal. The sad tone of his speculations about the universe and
+human destiny gave an impression of mournfulness to his lines,
+but this rather deepened the pathos of his work. In the same
+breath he sang of love and the grave, and the love was the more
+eager for its brevity. He had the poetic temperament--sensitive,
+ardent, aspiring. He possessed the poetic aspect--the broad white
+brow, the large blue eyes. Some compared him to Byron, but the
+resemblance was external merely. In ideas, purpose, feeling,
+he was entirely unlike the Englishman; in the energy and fire
+of his style only did he somewhat resemble him. Worshippers
+have even ventured to class him with Dante, a comparison which
+shows, at least, in what estimation the poet could be held at
+home, and how largely the patriotic sentiment entered into the
+conception of poetical compositions, how necessary it was that
+the singer should be a bard. His verses ranged over a large field.
+They were philosophic, patriotic, amorous. There are odes, lyrics,
+satires, songs; many very beautiful and feeling; all noble and
+earnest. His three poems, "All' Italia," "Sopra il Monumento
+di Dante," "A Angelo Mai," gave him a national reputation. They
+touch the chords to which he always responded--patriotism, poetry,
+learning, a national idealism bearing aloft an enormous weight
+of erudition and thought.
+
+Leopardi was born at Recanati, a small town about fifteen miles
+from Ancona, in 1798. He was of noble parentage, though not
+rich. His early disposition was joyous, but with the feverish joy
+of a highly-strung, nervous organization. He was a great student
+from boyhood; and severe application undermined a system that was
+never robust, and that soon became hopelessly diseased. Illness,
+accompanied with sharp pain, clipped the wings of his ambition,
+obliged him to forego preferment, and deepened the hopelessness
+that hung over his expectations. His hunger for love could
+not be satisfied, for his physical infirmity rendered a union
+undesirable, even if possible, while a craving ideality soon
+transcended any visible object of affection. He had warm friends
+of his own sex, one of whom, Antonio Ranieri, stayed by him
+in all vicissitudes, took him to Naples, and closed his eyes,
+June 14, 1837.
+
+To this acute sensibility of frame must be added the torture
+of the heart arising from a difference with his father, who,
+as a Catholic, was disturbed by the skeptical tendencies of his
+son, and the perpetual irritation of a conflict with the large
+majority of even philosophical minds. An early death might have
+been anticipated. No amount of hopefulness, of zest for life, of
+thirst for opportunity, of genius for intellectual productiveness
+will counteract such predisposition to decay. The death of
+the body, however, has but ensured a speedier immortality of
+the soul; for many a thinker has since been busy in gathering
+up the fragments of his mind and keeping his memory fresh. His
+immense learning has been forgotten. His archaeological knowledge,
+which fascinated Niebuhr, is of small account to-day. But his
+speculative and poetical genius is a permanent illumination.
+
+Mr. Townsend, the translator, well known in New York, where he
+was born, lived ten years in Italy, and seven in Rome. He was a
+studious, thoughtful man; quiet, secluded, scholarly; an eminent
+student of Italian literature; a real sympathizer with Italian
+progress. By the cast of his mind and the course of his inward
+experience he was drawn towards Leopardi. His version adheres
+as closely to the original as is compatible with elegance and
+the preservation of metrical grace. He has not rendered into
+English all Leopardi's poems, but he has presented the best of
+them, enough to give an idea of his author's style of feeling
+and expression.  What he has done, has been performed faithfully.
+It is worth remarking that he was attracted by the intense longing
+of the poet for love and appreciation, and by keen sympathy
+with his unhappy condition.  It is needless to say that he did
+not share the pessimism that imparts a melancholy hue to the
+philosopher's own doctrine, and that might have been modified
+if not dispelled by a different experience.  The translation
+was finished at Siena, the summer of the earthquake, and was
+the last work Mr. Townsend ever did, the commotion outside not
+interrupting him, or causing him to suspend his application.
+
+                                            O. B. Frothingham.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+    Dedication                                     xiii
+    To Italy                                          1
+    On Dante's Monument                               7
+    To Angelo Mai                                    15
+    To His Sister Paolina                            23
+    To a Victor in the Game of _Pallone_             27
+    The Younger Brutus                               30
+    To the Spring                                    35
+    Hymn to the Patriarchs                           40
+    The Last Song of Sappho                          45
+    First Love                                       48
+    The Lonely Sparrow                               53
+    The Infinite                                     56
+    The Evening of the Holiday                       57
+    To The Moon                                      59
+    The Dream                                        60
+    The Lonely Life                                  64
+    Consalvo                                         68
+    To the Beloved                                   74
+    To Count Carlo Pepoli                            77
+    The Resurrection                                 84
+    To Sylvia                                        92
+    Recollections                                    95
+    Night-Song of a Wandering Shepherd in Asia      102
+    Calm after Storm                                108
+    The Village Saturday-Night                      110
+    The Ruling Thought                              113
+    Love and Death                                  119
+    To Himself                                      124
+    Aspasia                                         125
+    On an Old Sepulchral Bas-Relief                 130
+    On the Portrait of a Beautiful Woman            135
+    Palinodia                                       138
+    The Setting of the Moon                         149
+    The Ginestra                                    152
+    Imitation                                       165
+    Scherzo                                         166
+    Fragments                                       167
+
+
+
+
+Dedication.
+
+[From the first Florentine Edition of the Poems, in the year 1831.]
+
+
+To my Friends in Tuscany:
+
+My dear Friends, I dedicate this book to you, in which, as is
+oft the case with Poets, I have sought to illustrate my sorrow,
+and with which I now--I cannot say it without tears--take leave
+of Literature and of my studies. I hoped these dear studies would
+have been the consolation of my old age, and thought, after having
+lost all the other joys and blessings of childhood and of youth,
+I had secured _one_, of which no power, no unhappiness could rob
+me. But I was scarcely twenty years old, when that weakness of
+nerves and of stomach, which has destroyed my life, and yet gives
+me no hope of death, robbed that only blessing of more than half
+its value, and, in my twenty-eighth year, has utterly deprived
+me of it, and, as I _must_ think, forever. I have not been able
+to read these pages, and have been compelled to entrust their
+revision to other eyes and other hands. I will utter no more
+complaints, my dear friends; the consciousness of the depth of my
+affliction admits not of complaints and lamentations. I have lost
+all; I am a withered branch, that feels and suffers still. _You_
+only have I won! Your society, which must compensate me for all
+my studies, joys, and hopes, would almost outweigh my sorrows,
+did not my very sickness prevent me from enjoying it as I could
+wish, and did I not know that Fate will soon deprive me of this
+benefit, also, and will compel me to spend the remainder of my
+days, far from all the delights of civilized life, in a spot,
+far better suited to the dead than to the living. Your love,
+meanwhile, will ever follow me, and will yet cling to me, perhaps,
+when this body, which, indeed, no longer lives, shall be turned
+to ashes. Farewell! Your
+
+                                            Leopardi.
+
+
+
+
+TO ITALY. (1818.)
+
+
+  My country, I the walls, the arches see,
+  The columns, statues, and the towers
+  Deserted, of our ancestors;
+  But, ah, the glory I do not behold,
+  The laurel and the sword, that graced
+  Our sires of old.
+  Now, all unarmed, a naked brow,
+  A naked breast dost thou display.
+  Ah, me, how many wounds, what stains of blood!
+  Oh, what a sight art thou,
+  Most beautiful of women! I
+  To heaven cry aloud, and to the world:
+  "Who hath reduced her to this pass?
+  Say, say!" And worst of all, alas,
+  See, both her arms in chains are bound!
+  With hair dishevelled, and without a veil
+  She sits, disconsolate, upon the ground,
+  And hides her face between her knees,
+  As she bewails her miseries.
+  Oh, weep, my Italy, for thou hast cause;
+  Thou, who wast born the nations to subdue,
+  As victor, and as victim, too!
+  Oh, if thy eyes two living fountains were,
+  The volume of their tears could ne'er express
+  Thy utter helplessness, thy shame;
+  Thou, who wast once the haughty dame,
+  And, now, the wretched slave.
+  Who speaks, or writes of thee,
+  That must not bitterly exclaim:
+  "She once was great, but, oh, behold her now"?
+  Why hast thou fallen thus, oh, why?
+  Where is the ancient force?
+  Where are the arms, the valor, constancy?
+  Who hath deprived thee of thy sword?
+  What treachery, what skill, what labor vast,
+  Or what o'erwhelming horde
+  Whose fierce, invading tide, thou could'st not stem,
+  Hath robbed thee of thy robe and diadem?
+  From such a height how couldst thou fall so low?
+  Will none defend thee? No?
+  No son of thine? For arms, for arms, I call;
+  Alone I'll fight for thee, alone will fall.
+  And from my blood, a votive offering,
+  May flames of fire in every bosom spring!
+  Where are thy sons? The sound of arms I hear,
+  Of chariots, of voices, and of drums;
+  From foreign lands it comes,
+  For which thy children fight.
+  Oh, hearken, hearken, Italy! I see,--
+  Or is it but a dream?--
+  A wavering of horse and foot,
+  And smoke, and dust, and flashing swords,
+  That like the lightning gleam.
+  Art thou not comforted? Dost turn away
+  Thy eyes, in horror, from the doubtful fray?
+  Ye gods, ye gods. Oh, can it be?
+  The youth of Italy
+  Their hireling swords for other lands have bared!
+  Oh, wretched he in war who falls,
+  Not for his native shores,
+  His loving wife and children dear,
+  But, fighting for another's gain,
+  And by another's foe is slain!
+  Nor can he say, as his last breath he draws,
+  "My mother-land, beloved, ah see,
+  The life thou gav'st, I render back to thee!"
+  Oh fortunate and dear and blessed,
+  The ancient days, when rushed to death the brave,
+  In crowds, their country's life to save!
+  And you, forever glorious,
+  Thessalian straits,
+  Where Persia, Fate itself, could not withstand
+  The fiery zeal of that devoted band!
+  Do not the trees, the rocks, the waves,
+  The mountains, to each passer-by,
+  With low and plaintive voice tell
+  The wondrous tale of those who fell,
+  Heroes invincible who gave
+  Their lives, their Greece to save?
+  Then cowardly as fierce,
+  Xerxes across the Hellespont retired,
+  A laughing-stock to all succeeding time;
+  And up Anthela's hill, where, e'en in death
+  The sacred Band immortal life obtained,
+  Simonides slow-climbing, thoughtfully,
+  Looked forth on sea and shore and sky.
+  And then, his cheeks with tears bedewed,
+  And heaving breast, and trembling foot, he stood,
+  His lyre in hand and sang:
+  "O ye, forever blessed,
+  Who bared your breasts unto the foeman's lance,
+  For love of her, who gave you birth;
+  By Greece revered, and by the world admired,
+  What ardent love your youthful minds inspired,
+  To rush to arms, such perils dire to meet,
+  A fate so hard, with loving smiles to greet?
+  Her children, why so joyously,
+  Ran ye, that stern and rugged pass to guard?
+  As if unto a dance,
+  Or to some splendid feast,
+  Each one appeared to haste,
+  And not grim death Death to brave;
+  But Tartarus awaited ye,
+  And the cold Stygian wave;
+  Nor were your wives or children at your side,
+  When, on that rugged shore,
+  Without a kiss, without a tear, ye died.
+  But not without a fearful blow
+  To Persians dealt, and their undying shame.
+  As at a herd of bulls a lion glares,
+  Then, plunging in, upon the back
+  Of this one leaps, and with his claws
+  A passage all along his chine he tears,
+  And fiercely drives his teeth into his sides,
+  Such havoc Grecian wrath and valor made
+  Amongst the Persian ranks, dismayed.
+  Behold each prostrate rider and his steed;
+  Behold the chariots, and the fallen tents,
+  A tangled mass their flight impede;
+  And see, among the first to fly,
+  The tyrant, pale, and in disorder wild!
+  See, how the Grecian youths,
+  With blood barbaric dyed,
+  And dealing death on every side,
+  By slow degrees by their own wounds subdued,
+  The one upon the other fall. Farewell,
+  Ye heroes blessed, whose names shall live,
+  While tongue can speak, or pen your story tell!
+  Sooner the stars, torn from their spheres, shall hiss,
+  Extinguished in the bottom of the sea,
+  Than the dear memory, and love of you,
+  Shall suffer loss, or injury.
+  Your tomb an altar is; the mothers here
+  Shall come, unto their little ones to show
+  The lovely traces of your blood. Behold,
+  Ye blessed, myself upon the ground I throw,
+  And kiss these stones, these clods
+  Whose fame, unto the end of time,
+  Shall sacred be in every clime.
+  Oh, had I, too, been here with you,
+  And this dear earth had moistened with my blood!
+  But since stern Fate would not consent
+  That I for Greece my dying eyes should close,
+  In conflict with her foes,
+  Still may the gracious gods accept
+  The offering I bring,
+  And grant to me the precious boon,
+  Your Hymn of Praise to sing!"
+
+
+
+
+ON DANTE'S MONUMENT, 1818.
+
+(THEN UNFINISHED.)
+
+
+  Though all the nations now
+  Peace gathers under her white wings,
+  The minds of Italy will ne'er be free
+  From the restraints of their old lethargy,
+  Till our ill-fated land cling fast
+  Unto the glorious memories of the Past.
+  Oh, lay it to thy heart, my Italy,
+  Fit honor to thy dead to pay;
+  For, ah, their like walk not thy streets to-day!
+  Nor is there one whom thou canst reverence!
+  Turn, turn, my country, and behold
+  That noble band of heroes old,
+  And weep, and on thyself thy anger vent,
+  For without anger, grief is impotent:
+  Oh, turn, and rouse thyself for shame,
+  Blush at the thought of sires so great,
+  Of children so degenerate!
+
+  Alien in mien, in genius, and in speech,
+  The eager guest from far
+  Went searching through the Tuscan soil to find
+  Where he reposed, whose verse sublime
+  Might fitly rank with Homer's lofty rhyme;
+  And oh! to our disgrace he heard
+  Not only that, e'er since his dying day,
+  In other soil his bones in exile lay,
+  But not a stone within thy walls was reared
+  To him, O Florence, whose renown
+  Caused thee to be by all the world revered.
+  Thanks to the brave, the generous band,
+  Whose timely labor from our land
+  Will this sad, shameful stain remove!
+  A noble task is yours,
+  And every breast with kindred zeal hath fired,
+  That is by love of Italy inspired.
+
+  May love of Italy inspire you still,
+  Poor mother, sad and lone,
+  To whom no pity now
+  In any breast is shown,
+  Now, that to golden days the evil days succeed.
+  May pity still, ye children dear,
+  Your hearts unite, your labors crown,
+  And grief and anger at her cruel pain,
+  As on her cheeks and veil the hot tears rain!
+  But how can I, in speech or song,
+  Your praises fitly sing,
+  To whose mature and careful thought,
+  The work superb, in your proud task achieved,
+  Will fame immortal bring?
+  What notes of cheer can I now send to you,
+  That may unto your ardent souls appeal,
+  And add new fervor to your zeal?
+
+  Your lofty theme will inspiration give,
+  And its sharp thorns within your bosoms lodge.
+  Who can describe the whirlwind and the storm
+  Of your deep anger, and your deeper love?
+  Who can your wonder-stricken looks portray,
+  The lightning in your eyes that gleams?
+  What mortal tongue can such celestial themes
+  In language fit describe?
+  Away ye souls, profane, away!
+  What tears will o'er this marble stone be shed!
+  How can it fall? How fall your fame sublime,
+  A victim to the envious tooth of Time?
+  O ye, that can alleviate our woes,
+  Sole comfort of this wretched land,
+  Live ever, ye dear Arts divine,
+  Amid the ruins of our fallen state,
+  The glories of the past to celebrate!
+  I, too, who wish to pay
+  Due honor to our grieving mother, bring
+  Of song my humble offering,
+  As here I sit, and listen, where
+  Your chisel life unto the marble gives.
+  O thou, illustrious sire of Tuscan song,
+  If tidings e'er of earthly things,
+  Of _her_, whom thou hast placed so high,
+  Could reach your mansions in the sky,
+  I know, thou for thyself no joy wouldst feel,
+  For, with thy fame compared,
+  Renowned in every land,
+  Our bronze and marble are as wax and sand;
+  If thee we _have_ forgotten, _can_ forget,
+  May suffering still follow suffering,
+  And may thy race to all the world unknown,
+  In endless sorrows weep and moan.
+
+  Thou for thyself no joy wouldst feel,
+  But for thy native land,
+  If the example of their sires
+  Could in the cold and sluggish sons
+  Renew once more the ancient fires,
+  That they might lift their heads in pride again.
+  Alas, with what protracted sufferings
+  Thou seest her afflicted, that, e'en then
+  Did seem to know no end,
+  When thou anew didst unto Paradise ascend!
+  Reduced so low, that, as thou seest her now,
+  She then a happy Queen appeared.
+  Such misery her heart doth grieve,
+  As, seeing, thou canst not thy eyes believe.
+  And oh, the last, most bitter blow of all,
+  When on the ground, as she in anguish lay,
+  It seemed, indeed, thy country's dying day!
+
+  O happy thou, whom Fate did not condemn
+  To live amid such horrors; who
+  Italian wives didst not behold
+  By ruffian troops embraced;
+  Nor cities plundered, fields laid waste
+  By hostile spear, and foreign rage;
+  Nor works divine of genius borne away
+  In sad captivity, beyond the Alps,
+  The roads encumbered with the precious prey;
+  Nor foreign rulers' insolence and pride;
+  Nor didst insulting voices hear,
+  Amidst the sound of chains and whips,
+  The sacred name of Liberty deride.
+  Who suffers not? Oh! at these wretches' hands,
+  What have we not endured?
+  From what unholy deed have they refrained?
+  What temple, altar, have they not profaned?
+  Why have we fallen on such evil times?
+  Why didst thou give us birth, or why
+  No sooner suffer us to die,
+  O cruel Fate? We, who have seen
+  Our wretched country so betrayed,
+  The handmaid, slave of impious strangers made,
+  And of her ancient virtues all bereft;
+  Yet could no aid or comfort give.
+  Or ray of hope, that might relieve
+  The anguish of her soul.
+  Alas, my blood has not been shed for thee,
+  My country dear! Nor have I died
+  That thou mightst live!
+  My heart with anger and with pity bleeds.
+  Ah, bitter thought! Thy children fought and fell;
+  But not for dying Italy, ah, no,
+  But in the service of her cruel foe!
+
+  Father, if this enrage thee not,
+  How changed art thou from what thou wast on earth!
+  On Russia's plains, so bleak and desolate,
+  They died, the sons of Italy;
+  Ah, well deserving of a better fate!
+  In cruel war with men, with beasts,
+  The elements! In heaps they strewed the ground;
+  Half-clad, emaciated, stained with blood,
+  A bed of ice for their sick frames they found.
+  Then, when the parting hour drew near,
+  In fond remembrance of that mother dear,
+  They cried: "Oh had we fallen by the foeman's hand,
+  And not the victims of the clouds and storms,
+  And for _thy_ good, our native land!
+  Now, far from thee, and in the bloom of youth,
+  Unknown to all, we yield our parting breath,
+  And die for _her_, who caused our country's death!"
+
+  The northern desert and the whispering groves,
+  Sole witnesses of their lament,
+  As thus they passed away!
+  And their neglected corpses, as they lay
+  Upon that horrid sea of snow exposed,
+  Were by the beasts consumed;
+  The memories of the brave and good,
+  And of the coward and the vile,
+  Unto the same oblivion doomed!
+  Dear souls, though infinite your wretchedness,
+  Rest, rest in peace! And yet what peace is yours,
+  Who can no comfort ever know
+  While Time endures!
+  Rest in the depths of your unmeasured woe,
+  O ye, _her_ children true,
+  Whose fate alone with hers may vie,
+  In endless, hopeless misery!
+
+  But she rebukes you not,
+  Ah, no, but these alone,
+  Who forced you with her to contend;
+  And still her bitter tears she blends with yours,
+  In wretchedness that knows no end.
+  Oh that some pity in the heart were born,
+  For her, who hath all other glories won,
+  Of one, who from this dark, profound abyss,
+  Her weak and weary feet could guide!
+  Thou glorious shade, oh! say,
+  Does no one love thy Italy?
+  Say, is the flame that kindled thee extinct?
+  And will that myrtle never bloom again,
+  That hath so long consoled us in our pain?
+  Must all our garlands wither in the dust?
+  And shall we a redeemer never see,
+  Who may, in part, at least, resemble thee?
+
+  Are we forever lost?
+  Is there no limit to our shame?
+  I, while I live, will never cease to cry:
+  "Degenerate race, think of thy ancestry!
+  Behold these ruins vast,
+  These pictures, statues, temples, poems grand!
+  Think of the glories of thy native land!
+  If they thy soul cannot inspire or warn,
+  Why linger here? Arise! Begone!
+  This holy ground must not be thus defiled,
+  And must no shelter give
+  Unto the coward and the slave!
+  Far better were the silence of the grave!"
+
+
+
+
+TO ANGELO MAI,
+
+ON HIS DISCOVERY OF THE LOST BOOKS OF CICERO,
+"DE REPUBLICA."
+
+
+  Italian bold, why wilt thou never cease
+  The fathers from their tombs to summon forth?
+  Why bring them, with this dead age to converse,
+  That stifled is by enemies and by sloth?
+  And why dost thou, voice of our ancestors,
+  That hast so long been mute,
+  Resound so loud and frequent in our ears?
+  Why all these grand discoveries?
+  As in a flash the fruitful pages come,
+  What hath this wretched age deserved,
+  That dusty cloisters have for it reserved
+  These hidden treasures of the wise and brave?
+  Illustrious man, with what strange power
+  Does Fate thy ardent zeal befriend?
+  Or does Fate vainly with man's will contend?
+
+  Without the lofty counsel of the gods,
+  It surely could not be, that now,
+  When we were never sunk so low,
+  In desperate oblivion of the Past,
+  Each moment, comes a cry renewed,
+  From our great sires, to shake our souls, at last!
+  Heaven still some pity shows for Italy;
+  Some god hath still our happiness at heart:
+  Since this, or else no other, is the hour,
+  Italian virtue to redeem,
+  And its old lustre once more to impart,
+  These pleading voices from the grave we hear;
+  Forgotten heroes rise from earth again,
+  To see, my country, if at this late day,
+  Thou still art pleased the coward's part to play.
+
+  And do ye cherish still,
+  Illustrious shades, some hope of us?
+  Have we not perished utterly?
+  To you, perhaps, it is allowed, to read
+  The book of destiny. _I_ am dismayed,
+  And have no refuge from my grief;
+  For dark to me the future is, and all
+  That I discern is such, as makes hope seem
+  A fable and a dream. To your old homes
+  A wretched crew succeed; to noble act or word,
+  They pay no heed; for your eternal fame
+  They know no envy, feel no blush of shame.
+  A filthy mob your monuments defile:
+  To ages yet unborn,
+  We have become a by-word and a scorn.
+
+  Thou noble spirit, if no others care
+  For our great Fathers' fame, oh, care thou still,
+  Thou, to whom Fate hath so benignant been,
+  That those old days appear again,
+  When, roused from dire oblivion's tomb,
+  Came forth, with all the treasures of their lore,
+  Those ancient bards, divine, with whom
+  Great Nature spake, but still behind her veil,
+  And with her mysteries graced
+  The holidays of Athens and of Rome.
+  O times, now buried in eternal sleep!
+  Our country's ruin was not then complete;
+  We then a life of wretched sloth disdained;
+  Still from our native soil were borne afar,
+  Some sparks of genius by the passing air.
+
+  Thy holy ashes still were warm,
+  Whom hostile fortune ne'er unmanned;
+  Unto whose anger and whose grief,
+  Hell was more grateful than thy native land.
+  Ah, what, but hell, has Italy become?
+  And thy sweet cords
+  Still trembled at the touch of thy right hand,
+  Unhappy bard of love.
+  Alas, Italian song is still the child
+  Of sorrow born.
+  And yet, less hard to bear,
+  Consuming grief than dull vacuity!
+  O blessed thou, whose life was one lament!
+  Disgust and nothingness are still our doom,
+  And by our cradle sit, and on our tomb.
+
+  But thy life, then, was with the stars and sea,
+  Liguria's hardy son,
+  When thou, beyond the columns and the shores,
+  Where oft, at set of sun,
+  The waves are heard to hiss,
+  As he into their depths has plunged,
+  Committed to the boundless deep,
+  Didst find again the sun's declining ray,
+  The new-born day didst find,
+  When it from us had passed away;
+  Defying Nature's every obstacle,
+  A land unknown didst win, the glorious spoils
+  Of all thy perils, all thy toils.
+  And yet, when known, the world seems smaller still;
+  And earth and ocean, and the heavenly sphere
+  More vast unto the child, than to the sage appear.
+
+  Where now are all the charming dreams
+  Of the mysterious retreats
+  Of dwellers unto us unknown,
+  Or where, by day, the stars to rest have gone,
+  Or of the couch remote of Eos bright,
+  Or of the sun's mysterious sleep at night?
+  They, in an instant, vanished all;
+  A little chart portrays this earthly ball.
+  Lo, all things are alike; discovery
+  But proves the way for dull vacuity.
+  Farewell to thee, O Fancy, dear,
+  If plain, unvarnished truth appear!
+  Thought more and more is still estranged from thee;
+  Thy power so mighty once, will soon be gone,
+  And our poor, wounded hearts be left forlorn.
+
+  But thou for these sweet dreams wast born,
+  And the _old_ sun upon thee shone,
+  Delightful singer of the arms, and loves,
+  That in an age far happier than our own,
+  Men's lives with pleasing errors filled.
+  New hope of Italy! O towers, O caves,
+  O ladies, cavaliers,
+  O gardens, palaces! Amenites,
+  At thought of which, the mind
+  Is lost in thousand splendid reveries!
+  Ye lovely fables, and ye thoughts grotesque,
+  Now banished! And what to us remains?
+  Now that the bloom from all things is removed?
+  Alas, the sole, the certain thought,
+  That all except our wretchedness, is nought.
+
+  Torquato, O Torquato, heaven to us
+  The rich gift of thy genius gave, to thee
+  Nought else but misery.
+  Ill-starred Torquato, whom thy song,
+  So sweet, could not console,
+  Nor melt the ice, to which
+  The genial current of thy soul
+  Was turned, by private envy, princely hate;
+  And then, by Love abandoned, life's last dream!
+  To thee, nought real seemed but nothingness,
+  The world a dreary wilderness.
+  Too late the honors came, so long deferred;
+  And yet, to die was unto thee a gain.
+  Who knows the evils of our mortal state,
+  Demands but death, no garland asks, of Fate.
+
+  Return, return to us,
+  Rise from thy silent, dreary tomb,
+  And feast thine eyes on our distress,
+  O thou, whose life was crowned with wretchedness!
+  Far worse than what appeared to thee so sad
+  And infamous, have all our lives become.
+  Dear friend, who now would pity thee,
+  When none save for himself hath thought or care?
+  Who would not thy keen anguish folly call,
+  When all things great and rare the name of folly bear?
+  When envy, no, but worse than envy, far,
+  Indifference pervades our rulers all?
+  Ah, who would now, when we all think
+  Of song so little, and so much of gain,
+  A laurel for thy brow prepare again?
+
+  Ah, since thy day, there has appeared but one,
+  Who has the fame of Italy redeemed:
+  Too good for his vile age, he stands alone;
+  One of the fierce Allobroges,
+  Whose manly virtue was derived
+  Direct from heavenly powers,
+  Not from this dry, unfruitful earth of ours;
+  Whence he alone, unarmed,--
+  O matchless courage!--from the stage,
+  Did war upon the ruthless tyrants wage;
+  The only war, the only weapon left,
+  Against the crimes and follies of the age.
+  First, and alone, he took the field:
+  None followed him; all else were cowards tame,
+  Lost to all sense of honor, or of shame.
+
+  Devoured by anger and by grief,
+  His spotless life he passed,
+  Till from worse scenes released by death, at last.
+  O my Victorio, this was not for thee
+  The fitting age, or land.
+  Great souls congenial times and climes demand.
+  In mere repose we live content,
+  And vulgar mediocrity;
+  The wise man sinks, the mob ascends,
+  Till all at last in one dread level ends.
+  Go on, thou great discoverer!
+  Revive the dead, since all the living sleep!
+  Dead tongues of ancient heroes arm anew;
+  Till this vile age a new life strive to win
+  By noble deeds, or perish in its sin!
+
+
+
+
+TO HIS SISTER PAOLINA,
+
+ON HER APPROACHING MARRIAGE.
+
+
+  Since now thou art about to leave
+  Thy father's quiet house,
+  And all the phantoms and illusions dear,
+  That heaven-born fancies round it weave,
+  And to this lonely region lend their charm,
+  Unto the dust and noise of life condemned,
+  By destiny, soon wilt thou learn to see
+  Our wretchedness and infamy,
+  My sister dear, who, in these mournful times,
+  Alas, wilt more unhappy souls bestow
+  On our unhappy Italy!
+  With strong examples strengthen thou their minds;
+  For cruel fate propitious gales
+  Hath e'er to virtue's course denied,
+  Nor in weak souls can purity reside.
+
+  Thy sons must either poor, or cowards be.
+  Prefer them poor. It is the custom still.
+  Desert and fortune never yet were friends;
+  The strife between them never ends.
+  Unhappy they, who in these evil days
+  Are born when all things totter to their fall!
+  But that we must to heaven leave.
+  Be this, above all things, thy care,
+  Thy children still to rear,
+  As those who court not Fortune's smiles,
+  Nor playthings are of idle hope, or fear:
+  And so the future age will call them blessed;
+  For, in this slothful and deceitful world,
+  The living virtue ever we despise,
+  The dead we load with eulogies.
+
+  Women, to you our country looks,
+  For the redemption of her fame:
+  Ah, not unto our injury and shame,
+  On the soft lustre of your eyes
+  A power far mightier was conferred
+  Than that of fire or sword!
+  The wise and strong, in thought and act, are by
+  Your judgment led; nay all who live
+  Beneath the sun, to you still bend the knee.
+  On you I call, then; answer me!
+  Have _you_ youth's holy aspirations quenched?
+  And are our natures broken, crushed by _you_?
+  These sluggish minds, these low desires,
+  These nerveless arms, these feeble knees.
+  Say, say, are you to blame for these?
+
+  Love is the spur to noble deeds,
+  To him its worth who knows;
+  And beauty still to lofty love inspires.
+  Love never in his spirit glows,
+  Whose heart exults not in his breast,
+  When angry winds in fight descend,
+  And heaven gathers all its clouds,
+  And mountain crests the lightnings rend.
+  O wives, O maidens, he
+  Who shrinks from danger, turns his back upon
+  His country in her need, and only seeks
+  His base desires and appetites to feed,
+  Excites your hatred and your scorn;
+  If ye for men, and not for milk-sops, feel
+  The glow of love o'er your soft bosoms steal.
+
+  The mothers of unwarlike sons
+  O may ye ne'er be called!
+  Your children still inure
+  For virtue's sake all trials to endure;
+  To scorn the vices of this wretched age;
+  To cherish loyal thoughts, and high desires;
+  And learn how much they owe unto their sires.
+  The sons of Sparta thus became,
+  Amid the memories of heroes old,
+  Deserving of the Grecian name;
+  While the young spouse the trusty sword
+  Upon the loved one's side would gird,
+  And, afterwards, with her black locks,
+  The bloodless, naked corpse concealed,
+  When homeward borne upon the faithful shield.
+
+  Virginia, thy soft cheek
+  In Beauty's finest mould was framed;
+  But thy disdain Rome's haughty lord inflamed.
+  How lovely wast thou, in thy youth's sweet prime,
+  When the rough dagger of thy sire
+  Thy snowy breast did smite,
+  And thou, a willing victim, didst descend
+  Into realms of night!
+  "May old age wither and consume my frame,
+  O father,"--thus she said;
+  "And may they now for me the tomb prepare,
+  E'er I the impious bed
+  Of that foul tyrant share:
+  And if my blood new life and liberty
+  May give to Rome, by thy hand let me die!"
+
+  Ah, in those better days
+  When more propitious shone the sun than now,
+  Thy tomb, dear child, was not left comfortless,
+  But honored with the tears of all.
+  Behold, around thy lovely corpse, the sons
+  Of Romulus with holy wrath inflamed;
+  Behold the tyrants locks with dust besmeared;
+  In sluggish breasts once more
+  The sacred name of Liberty revered;
+  Behold o'er all the subjugated earth,
+  The troops of Latium march triumphant forth,
+  From torrid desert to the gloomy pole.
+  And thus eternal Rome,
+  That had so long in sloth oblivious lain,
+  A daughter's sacrifice revives again.
+
+
+
+
+TO A VICTOR IN THE GAME OF PALLONE.
+
+
+  The face of glory and her pleasant voice,
+  O fortunate youth, now recognize,
+  And how much nobler than effeminate sloth
+  Are manhood's tested energies.
+  Take heed, O generous champion, take heed,
+  If thou thy name by worthy thought or deed,
+  From Time's all-sweeping current couldst redeem;
+  Take heed, and lift thy heart to high desires!
+  The amphitheatre's applause, the public voice,
+  Now summon thee to deeds illustrious;
+  Exulting in thy lusty youth.
+  In thee, to-day, thy country dear
+  Beholds her heroes old again appear.
+
+  _His_ hand was ne'er with blood barbaric stained,
+  At Marathon,
+  Who on the plain of Elis could behold
+  The naked athletes, and the wrestlers bold,
+  And feel no glow of emulous zeal within,
+  The laurel wreath of victory to win.
+  And he, who in Alpheus stream did wash
+  The dusty manes and foaming flanks
+  Of his victorious mares, _he_ best could lead
+  The Grecian banners and the Grecian swords
+  Against the flying, panic-stricken ranks
+  Of Medes, who, dying, Asia's shore
+  And great Euphrates will behold no more.
+
+  And will you call that vain, which seeks
+  The latent sparks of virtue to evolve,
+  Or animate anew to high resolve,
+  The drooping fervor of our weary souls?
+  What but a game have mortal works e'er been,
+  Since Phoebus first his weary wheels did urge?
+  And is not truth, no less than falsehood, vain?
+  And yet, with pleasing phantoms, fleeting shows,
+  Nature herself to our relief has come;
+  And custom, aiding nature, still must strive
+  These strong illusions to revive;
+  Or else all thirst for noble deeds is gone,
+  Is lost in sloth, and blind oblivion.
+
+  The time may come, perchance, when midst
+  The ruins of Italian palaces,
+  Will herds of cattle graze,
+  And all the seven hills the plough will feel;
+  Not many years will have elapsed, perchance,
+  E'er all the towns of Italy
+  Will the abode of foxes be,
+  And dark groves murmur 'mid the lofty walls;
+  Unless the Fates from our perverted minds
+  Remove this sad oblivion of the Past;
+  And heaven by grateful memories appeased,
+  Relenting, in the hour of our despair,
+  The abject nations, ripe for slaughter, spare.
+
+  But thou, O worthy youth, wouldst grieve,
+  Thy wretched country to survive.
+  Thou once through her mightst have acquired renown,
+  When on her brow she wore the glittering crown,
+  Now lost! Our fault, and Fate's! That time is o'er;
+  Ah, such a mother who could honor, more?
+  But for thyself, O lift thy thoughts on high!
+  What is our life? A thing to be despised:
+  Least wretched, when with perils so beset,
+  It must, perforce, its wretched self forget,
+  Nor heed the flight of slow-paced, worthless hours;
+  Or, when, to Lethe's dismal shore impelled,
+  It hath once more the light of day beheld.
+
+
+
+
+THE YOUNGER BRUTUS.
+
+
+  When in the Thracian dust uprooted lay,
+  In ruin vast, the strength of Italy,
+  And Fate had doomed Hesperia's valleys green,
+  And Tiber's shores,
+  The trampling of barbarian steeds to feel,
+  And from the leafless groves,
+  On which the Northern Bear looks down,
+  Had called the Gothic hordes,
+  That Rome's proud walls might fall before their swords;
+  Exhausted, wet with brothers' blood,
+  Alone sat Brutus, in the dismal night;
+  Resolved on death, the gods implacable
+  Of heaven and hell he chides,
+  And smites the listless, drowsy air
+  With his fierce cries of anger and despair.
+
+  "O foolish virtue, empty mists,
+  The realms of shadows, are thy schools,
+  And at thy heels repentance follows fast.
+  To you, ye marble gods
+  (If ye in Phlegethon reside, or dwell
+  Above the clouds), a mockery and scorn
+  Is the unhappy race,
+  Of whom you temples ask,
+  And fraudulent the law that you impose.
+  Say, then, does earthly piety provoke
+  The anger of the gods?
+  O Jove, dost thou protect the impious?
+  And when the storm-cloud rushes through the air,
+  And thou thy thunderbolts dost aim,
+  Against the _just_ dost thou impel the sacred flame?
+  Unconquered Fate and stern necessity
+  Oppress the feeble slaves of Death:
+  Unable to avert their injuries,
+  The common herd endure them patiently.
+  But is the ill less hard to bear,
+  Because it has no remedy?
+  Does he who knows no hope no sorrow feel?
+  The hero wages war with thee,
+  Eternal deadly war, ungracious Fate,
+  And knows not how to yield; and thy right hand,
+  Imperious, proudly shaking off,
+  E'en when it weighs upon him most,
+  Though conquered, is triumphant still,
+  When his sharp sword inflicts the fatal blow;
+  And seeks with haughty smile the shades below.
+
+  "Who storms the gates of Tartarus,
+  Offends the gods.
+  Such valor does not suit, forsooth,
+  Their soft, eternal bosoms; no?
+  Or are our toils and miseries,
+  And all the anguish of our hearts,
+  A pleasant sport, their leisure to beguile?
+  Yet no such life of crime and wretchedness,
+  But pure and free as her own woods and fields,
+  Nature to us prescribed; a queen
+  And goddess once. Since impious custom, now,
+  Her happy realm hath scattered to the winds,
+  And other laws on this poor life imposed,
+  Will Nature of fool-hardiness accuse
+  The manly souls, who such a life refuse?
+
+  "Of crime, and their own sufferings ignorant,
+  Serene old age the beasts conducts
+  Unto the death they ne'er foresee.
+  But if, by misery impelled, they sought
+  To dash their heads against the rugged tree,
+  Or, plunging headlong from the lofty rock,
+  Their limbs to scatter to the winds.
+  No law mysterious, misconception dark,
+  Would the sad wish refuse to grant.
+  Of all that breathe the breath of life,
+  You, only, children of Prometheus, feel
+  That life a burden hard to bear;
+  Yet, would you seek the silent shores of death,
+  If sluggish fate the boon delay,
+  To you, alone, stern Jove forbids the way.
+
+  "And thou, white moon, art rising from the sea,
+  That with our blood is stained;
+  The troubled night dost thou survey,
+  And field, so fatal unto Italy.
+  On brothers' breasts the conqueror treads;
+  The hills with fear are thrilled;
+  From her proud heights Rome totters to her fall.
+  And smilest thou upon the dismal scene?
+  Lavinia's children from their birth,
+  And all their prosperous years,
+  And well-earned laurels, hast thou seen;
+  And thou _wilt_ smile, with ray unchanged,
+  Upon the Alps, when, bowed with grief and shame,
+  The haughty city, desolate and lone,
+  Beneath the tread of Gothic hordes shall groan.
+
+  "Behold, amid the naked rocks,
+  Or on the verdant bough, the beast and bird,
+  Whose breasts are ne'er by thought or memory stirred,
+  Of the vast ruin take no heed,
+  Or of the altered fortunes of the world;
+  And when the humble herdsman's cot
+  Is tinted with the earliest rays of dawn,
+  The one will wake the valleys with his song,
+  The other, o'er the cliffs, the frightened throng
+  Of smaller beasts before him drive.
+  O foolish race! Most wretched we, of all!
+  Nor are these blood-stained fields,
+  These caverns, that our groans have heard,
+  Regardful of our misery;
+  Nor shines one star less brightly in the sky.
+  Not the deaf kings of heaven or hell,
+  Or the unworthy earth,
+  Or night, do I in death invoke,
+  Or thee, last gleam the dying hour that cheers,
+  The voice of coming ages. I no tomb
+  Desire, to be with sobs disturbed, or with
+  The words and gifts of wretched fools adorned.
+  The times grow worse and worse;
+  And who, unto a vile posterity,
+  The honor of great souls would trust,
+  Or fit atonement for their wrongs?
+  Then let the birds of prey around me wheel:
+  And let my wretched corpse
+  The lightning blast, the wild beast tear;
+  And let my name and memory melt in air!"
+
+
+
+
+TO THE SPRING.
+
+OR OF THE FABLES OF THE ANCIENTS.
+
+
+  Now that the sun the faded charms
+  Of heaven again restores,
+  And gentle zephyr the sick air revives,
+  And the dark shadows of the clouds
+  Are put to flight,
+  And birds their naked breasts confide
+  Unto the wind, and the soft light,
+  With new desire of love, and with new hope,
+  The conscious beasts, in the deep woods,
+  Amid the melting frosts, inspires;
+  May not to you, poor human souls,
+  Weary, and overborne with grief,
+  The happy age return, which misery,
+  And truth's dark torch, before its time, consumed?
+  Have not the golden rays
+  Of Phoebus vanished from your gaze
+  Forever? Say, O gentle Spring,
+  Canst thou this icy heart inspire, and melt,
+  That in the bloom of youth, the frost of age hath felt?
+
+  O holy Nature, art thou still alive?
+  Alive? And does the unaccustomed ear
+  Of thy maternal voice the accents hear?
+  Of white nymphs once, the streams were the abode.
+  And in the clear founts mirrored were their forms.
+  Mysterious dances of immortal feet
+  The mountain tops and lofty forests shook,--
+  To-day the lonely mansions of the winds;--
+  And when the shepherd-boy the noontide shade
+  Would seek, or bring his thirsty lambs
+  Unto the flowery margin of the stream,
+  Along the banks the clear song would he hear,
+  And pipe of rustic Fauns;
+  Would see the waters move,
+  And stand amazed, when, hidden from the view,
+  The quiver-bearing goddess would descend
+  Into the genial waves,
+  And from her snow-white arms efface
+  The dust and blood of the exciting chase.
+
+  The flowers, the herbs _once_ lived,
+  The groves with life were filled:
+  Soft airs, and clouds, and every shining light
+  Were with the human race in sympathy,
+  When thee, fair star of Venus, o'er
+  The hills and dales,
+  The traveller, in the lonely night,
+  Pursuing with his earnest gaze,
+  The sweet companion of his path,
+  The loving friend of mortals deemed:
+  When he, who, fleeing from the impious strife
+  Of cities filled with mutiny and shame,
+  In depths of woods remote,
+  The rough trees clasping to his breast,
+  The vital flame seemed in their veins to feel,
+  The breathing leaves of Daphne, or of Phyllis sad;
+  And seemed the sisters' tears to see, still shed
+  For him who, smitten by the lightning's blast,
+  Into the swift Eridanus was cast.
+
+  Nor were ye deaf, ye rigid rocks,
+  To human sorrow's plaintive tones,
+  While in your dark recesses Echo dwelt,
+  No idle plaything of the winds,
+  But spirit sad of hapless nymph,
+  Whom unrequited love, and cruel fate,
+  Of her soft limbs deprived. She o'er the grots,
+  The naked rocks, and mansions desolate,
+  Unto the depths of all-embracing air,
+  Our sorrows, not to her unknown,
+  Our broken, loud laments conveyed.
+  And _thou_, if fame belie thee not,
+  Didst sound the depths of human woe,
+  Sweet bird, that comest to the leafy grove,
+  The new-born Spring to greet,
+  And when the fields are hushed in sleep,
+  To chant into the dark and silent air,
+  The ancient wrongs, and cruel treachery,
+  That stirred the pity of the gods, to see.
+  But, no, thy race is not akin to ours;
+  No sorrow framed thy melodies;
+  Thy voice of crime unconscious, pleases less,
+  Along the dusky valley heard.
+  Ah, since the mansions of Olympus all
+  Are desolate, and without guide, the bolt,
+  That, wandering o'er the cloud-capped mountain-tops,
+  In horror cold dissolves alike
+  The guilty and the innocent;
+  Since this, our earthly home,
+  A stranger to her children has become,
+  And brings them up, to misery;
+  Lend thou an ear, dear Nature, to the woes
+  And wretched fate of mortals, and revive
+  The ancient spark within my breast;
+  If thou, indeed, dost live, if aught there is,
+  In heaven, or on the sun-lit earth,
+  Or in the bosom of the sea,
+  That pities? No; but _sees_ our misery.
+
+
+
+
+HYMN TO THE PATRIARCHS.
+
+OR OF THE BEGINNINGS OF THE HUMAN RACE.
+
+
+  Illustrious fathers of the human race,
+  Of you, the song of your afflicted sons
+  Will chant the praise; of you, more dear, by far,
+  Unto the Great Disposer of the stars,
+  Who were not born to wretchedness, like ours.
+  Immedicable woes, a life of tears,
+  The silent tomb, eternal night, to find
+  More sweet, by far, than the ethereal light,
+  These things were not by heaven's gracious law
+  Imposed on you. If ancient legends speak
+  Of sins of yours, that brought calamity
+  Upon the human race, and fell disease,
+  Alas, the sins more terrible, by far,
+  Committed by your children, and their souls
+  More restless, and with mad ambition fixed,
+  Against them roused the wrath of angry gods,
+  The hand of all-sustaining Nature armed,
+  By them so long neglected and despised.
+  Then life became a burden and a curse,
+  And every new-born babe a thing abhorred,
+  And hell and chaos reigned upon the earth.
+
+  Thou first the day, and thou the shining lights
+  Of the revolving stars didst see, the fields,
+  And their new flocks and herds, O leader old
+  And father of the human family!
+  The wandering air that o'er the meadows played,
+  When smote the rocks, and the deserted vales,
+  The torrent, rustling headlong from the Alps,
+  With sound, till then, unheard; and o'er the sites
+  Of future nations, noisy cities, yet unknown
+  To fame, a peace profound, mysterious reigned;
+  And o'er the unploughed hills, in silence, rose
+  The ray of Phoebus, and the golden moon.
+  O world, how happy in thy loneliness,
+  Of crimes and of disasters ignorant!
+  Oh, how much wretchedness Fate had in store
+  For thy poor race, unhappy father, what
+  A series vast of terrible events!
+  Behold, the fields, scarce tilled, with blood are stained,
+  A brother's blood, in sudden frenzy shed;
+  And now, alas, first hears the gentle air
+  The whirring of the fearful wings of Death.
+  The trembling fratricide, a fugitive,
+  The lonely shades avoids; in every blast
+  That sweeps the groves, a voice of wrath he hears.
+  _He_ the first city builds, abode and realm
+  Of wasting cares; repentance desperate,
+  Heart-sick, and groaning, thus unites and binds
+  Together blind and sinful souls, and first
+  A refuge offers unto mutual guilt.
+  The wicked hand now scorns the crooked plough;
+  The sweat of honest labor is despised;
+  Now sloth possession of the threshold takes;
+  The sluggish frames their native vigor lose;
+  The minds in hopeless indolence are sunk;
+  And slavery, the crowning curse of all,
+  Degrades and crushes poor humanity.
+
+  And thou from heaven's wrath, and ocean's waves,
+  That bellowed round the cloud-capped mountain-tops,
+  The sinful brood didst save; thou, unto whom,
+  From the dark air and wave-encumbered hills,
+  The white dove brought the sign of hope renewed,
+  And sinking in the west, the shipwrecked sun,
+  His bright rays darting through the angry clouds,
+  The dark sky painted with the lovely bow.
+  The race restored, to earth returned, begins anew
+  The same career of wickedness and lust,
+  With their attendant ills. Audacious man
+  Defies the threats of the avenging sea,
+  And to new shores and to new stars repeats
+  The same sad tale of infamy and woe.
+
+  And now of thee I think, the just and brave,
+  The Father of the faithful, and the sons
+  Thy honored name that bore. Of thee I speak,
+  Whom, sitting, thoughtful, in the noontide shade,
+  Before thy humble cottage, near the banks,
+  That gave thy flocks both rest and nourishment,
+  The minds ethereal of celestial guests
+  With blessings greeted; and of thee, O son
+  Of wise Rebecca, how at eventide,
+  In Aran's valley sweet, and by the well,
+  Where happy swains in friendly converse met,
+  Thou didst with Laban's daughter fall in love;
+  Love, that to exile long, and suffering,
+  And to the odious yoke of servitude,
+  Thy patient soul a willing martyr led.
+
+  Oh, surely once,--for not with idle tales
+  And shadows, the Aonian song, and voice
+  Of Fame, the eager list'ners feed,--once was
+  This wretched earth more friendly to our race,
+  Was more beloved and dear, and golden flew
+  The days, that now so laden are with care.
+  Not that the milk, in waves of purest white,
+  Gushed from the rocks, and flowed along the vales;
+  Or that the tigers mingled with the sheep,
+  To the same fold were led; or shepherd-boys
+  With playful wolves would frolic at the spring;
+  But of its own lot ignorant, and all
+  The sufferings that were in store, devoid
+  Of care it lived: a soft, illusive veil
+  Of error hid the stern realities,
+  The cruel laws of heaven and of fate.
+  Life glided on, with cheerful hope content;
+  And tranquil, sought the haven of its rest.
+
+  So lives, in California's forests vast,
+  A happy race, whose life-blood is not drained
+  By pallid care, whose limbs are not by fierce
+  Disease consumed: the woods their food, their homes
+  The hollow rock, the streamlet of the vale
+  Its waters furnishes, and, unforeseen,
+  Dark death upon them steals. Ah, how unarmed,
+  Wise Nature's happy votaries, are ye,
+  Against our impious audacity!
+  Our fierce, indomitable love of gain
+  Your shores, your caves, your quiet woods invades;
+  Your minds corrupts, your bodies enervates;
+  And happiness, a naked fugitive,
+  Before it drives, to earth's remotest bounds.
+
+
+
+
+THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.
+
+
+  Thou tranquil night, and thou, O gentle ray
+  Of the declining moon; and thou, that o'er
+  The rock appearest, 'mid the silent grove,
+  The messenger of day; how dear ye were,
+  And how delightful to these eyes, while yet
+  Unknown the furies, and grim Fate! But now,
+  No gentle sight can soothe this wounded soul.
+  Then, only, can forgotten joy revive,
+  When through the air, and o'er the trembling fields
+  The raging south wind whirls its clouds of dust;
+  And when the car, the pondrous car of Jove,
+  Omnipotent, high-thundering o'er our heads,
+  A pathway cleaves athwart the dusky sky.
+  Then would I love with storm-charged clouds to fly
+  Along the cliffs, along the valleys deep,
+  The headlong flight of frightened flocks to watch,
+  Or hear, upon some swollen river's shore
+  The angry billows' loud, triumphant roar.
+
+  How beautiful thou art, O heaven divine,
+  And thou, O dewy earth! Alas no part
+  Of all this beauty infinite, the gods
+  And cruel fate to wretched Sappho gave!
+  To thy proud realms, O Nature, I, a poor,
+  Unwelcome guest, rejected lover, come;
+  To all thy varied forms of loveliness,
+  My heart and eyes, a suppliant, lift in vain.
+  The sun-lit shore hath smiles no more for me,
+  Nor radiant morning light at heaven's gate;
+  The birds no longer greet me with their songs,
+  Nor whispering trees with gracious messages;
+  And where, beneath the bending willows' shade,
+  The limpid stream its bosom pure displays,
+  As I, with trembling and uncertain foot,
+  Oppressed with grief, upon its margin pause,
+  The dimpled waves recoil, as in disdain,
+  And urge their flight along the flowery plain.
+
+  What fearful crime, what hideous excess
+  Have so defiled me, e'en before my birth,
+  That heaven and fortune frown upon me thus?
+  Wherein have I offended, as a child,
+  When we of evil deeds are ignorant,
+  That thus disfigured, of the bloom of youth
+  Bereft, my little thread of life has from
+  The spindle of the unrelenting Fate
+  Been drawn? Alas, incautious are thy words!
+  Mysterious counsels all events control,
+  And all, except our grief, is mystery.
+  Deserted children, we were born to weep;
+  But why, is known to those above, alone.
+  O vain the cares, the hopes of earlier years!
+  To idle shows Jove gives eternal sway
+  O'er human hearts. Unless in shining robes arrayed,
+  All manly deeds in arms, or art, or song,
+  Appeal in vain unto the vulgar throng.
+
+  I die! This wretched veil to earth I cast,
+  And for my naked soul a refuge seek
+  Below, and for the cruel faults atone
+  Of gods, the blind dispensers of events.
+  And thou, to whom I have been bound so long,
+  By hopeless love, and lasting faith, and by
+  The frenzy vain of unappeased desire,
+  Live, live, and if thou canst, be happy here!
+  My cup o'erflows with bitterness, and Jove
+  Has from his vase no drop of sweetness shed,
+  For all my childhood's hopes and dreams have fled.
+  The happiest day the soonest fades away;
+  And then succeed disease, old age, the shade
+  Of icy death. Behold, alas! Of all
+  My longed-for laurels, my illusions dear,
+  The end,--the gulf of hell! My spirit proud
+  Must to the realm of Proserpine descend,
+  The Stygian shore, the night that knows no end.
+
+
+
+
+FIRST LOVE.
+
+
+  Ah, well can I the day recall, when first
+  The conflict fierce of love I felt, and said:
+  If _this_ be love, how hard it is to bear!
+
+  With eyes still fixed intent upon the ground,
+  I saw but _her_, whose artless innocence,
+  Triumphant took possession of this heart.
+
+  Ah, Love, how badly hast thou governed me!
+  Why should affection so sincere and pure,
+  Bring with it such desire, such suffering?
+
+  Why not serene, and full, and free from guile
+  But sorrow-laden, and lamenting sore,
+  Should joy so great into my heart descend?
+
+  O tell me, tender heart, that sufferest so,
+  Why with that thought such anguish should be blent,
+  Compared with which, all other thoughts were naught?
+
+  That thought, that ever present in the day,
+  That in the night more vivid still appeared,
+  When all things round in sweet sleep seemed to rest:
+
+  Thou, restless, both with joy and misery
+  Didst with thy constant throbbings weary so
+  My breast, as panting in my bed I lay.
+
+  And when worn out with grief and weariness,
+  In sleep my eyes I closed, ah, no relief
+  It gave, so broken and so feverish!
+
+  How brightly from the depths of darkness, then,
+  The lovely image rose, and my closed eyes,
+  Beneath their lids, their gaze upon it fed!
+
+  O what delicious impulses, diffused,
+  My weary frame with sweet emotion filled!
+  What myriad thoughts, unstable and confused,
+
+  Were floating in my mind! As through the leaves
+  Of some old grove, the west wind, wandering,
+  A long, mysterious murmur leaves behind.
+
+  And as I, silent, to their influence yield,
+  What saidst thou, heart, when she departed, who
+  Had caused thee all thy throbs, and suffering?
+
+  No sooner had I felt within, the heat
+  Of love's first flame, than with it flew away
+  The gentle breeze, that fanned it into life.
+
+  Sleepless I lay, until the dawn of day;
+  The steeds, that were to leave me desolate,
+  Their hoofs were beating at my father's gate.
+
+  And I, in mute suspense, poor timid fool,
+  With eye that vainly would the darkness pierce,
+  And eager ear intent, lay, listening,
+
+  That voice to hear, if, for the last time, I
+  Might catch the accents from those lovely lips;
+  The voice alone; all else forever lost!
+
+  How many vulgar tones my doubtful ear
+  Would smite, with deep disgust inspiring me,
+  With doubt tormented, holding hard my breath!
+
+  And when, at last, that voice into my heart
+  Descended, passing sweet, and when the sound
+  Of horses and of wheels had died away;
+
+  In utter desolation, then, my head
+  I in my pillow buried, closed my eyes,
+  And pressed my hand against my heart, and sighed.
+
+  Then, listlessly, my trembling knees across
+  The silent chamber dragging, I exclaimed,
+  "Nothing on earth can interest me more!"
+
+  The bitter recollection cherishing
+  Within my breast, to every voice my heart,
+  To every face, insensible remained.
+
+  Long I remained in hopeless sorrow drowned;
+  As when the heavens far and wide their showers
+  Incessant pour upon the fields around.
+
+  Nor had I, Love, thy cruel power known,
+  A boy of eighteen summers flown, until
+  That day, when I thy bitter lesson learned;
+
+  When I each pleasure held in scorn, nor cared
+  The shining stars to see, or meadows green,
+  Or felt the charm of holy morning light;
+
+  The love of glory, too, no longer found
+  An echo in my irresponsive breast,
+  That, once, the love of beauty with it shared.
+
+  My favorite studies I neglected quite;
+  And those things vain appeared, compared with which,
+  I used to think all other pleasures vain.
+
+  Ah! how could I have changed so utterly?
+  How could one passion all the rest destroy?
+  Indeed, what helpless mortals are we all!
+
+  My heart my only comfort was, and with
+  That heart, in conference perpetual,
+  A constant watch upon my grief to keep.
+
+  My eye still sought the ground, or in itself
+  Absorbed, shrank from encountering the glance
+  Of lovely or unlovely countenance;
+
+  The stainless image fearing to disturb,
+  So faithfully reflected in my breast;
+  As winds disturb the mirror of the lake.
+
+  And that regret, that I could not enjoy
+  Such happiness, which weighs upon the mind,
+  And turns to poison pleasure that has passed,
+
+  Did still its thorn within my bosom lodge,
+  As I the past recalled; but shame, indeed,
+  Left not its cruel sting within this heart.
+
+  To heaven, to you, ye gentle souls, I swear,
+  No base desire intruded on my thought;
+  But with a pure and sacred flame I burned.
+
+  That flame still lives, and that affection pure;
+  Still in my thought that lovely image breathes,
+  From which, save heavenly, I no other joy,
+
+  Have ever known; my only comfort, now!
+
+
+
+
+THE LONELY SPARROW.
+
+
+  Thou from the top of yonder antique tower,
+  O lonely sparrow, wandering, hast gone,
+  Thy song repeating till the day is done,
+  And through this valley strays the harmony.
+  How Spring rejoices in the fields around,
+  And fills the air with light,
+  So that the heart is melted at the sight!
+  Hark to the bleating flocks, the lowing herds!
+  In sweet content, the other birds
+  Through the free sky in emulous circles wheel,
+  In pure enjoyment of their happy time:
+  Thou, pensive, gazest on the scene apart,
+  Nor wilt thou join them in the merry round;
+  Shy playmate, thou for mirth hast little heart;
+  And with thy plaintive music, dost consume
+  Both of the year, and of thy life, the bloom.
+
+  Alas, how much my ways
+  Resemble thine! The laughter and the sport,
+  That fill with glee our youthful days,
+  And thee, O love, who art youth's brother still,
+  Too oft the bitter sigh of later years,
+  I care not for; I know not why,
+  But from them ever distant fly:
+  Here in my native place,
+  As if of alien race,
+  My spring of life I like a hermit pass.
+  This day, that to the evening now gives way,
+  Is in our town an ancient holiday.
+  Hark, through the air, that voice of festal bell,
+  While rustic guns in frequent thunders sound,
+  Reverberated from the hills around.
+  In festal robes arrayed,
+  The neighboring youth,
+  Their houses leaving, o'er the roads are spread;
+  They pleasant looks exchange, and in their hearts
+  Rejoice. I, lonely, in this distant spot,
+  Along the country wandering,
+  Postpone all pleasure and delight
+  To some more genial time: meanwhile,
+  As through the sunny air around I gaze,
+  My brow is smitten by his rays,
+  As after such a day serene,
+  Dropping behind yon distant hills,
+  He vanishes, and seems to say,
+  That thus all happy youth must pass away.
+
+  Thou, lonely little bird, when thou
+  Hast reached the evening of the days
+  Thy stars assign to thee,
+  Wilt surely not regret thy ways;
+  For all thy wishes are
+  Obedient to Nature's law. But ah!
+  If I, in spite of all my prayers,
+  Am doomed the hateful threshold of old age
+  To cross, when these dull eyes will give
+  No response to another's heart,
+  The world to them a void will be,
+  Each day become more full of misery,
+  How then, will this, my wish appear
+  In those dark hours, that dungeon drear?
+  My blighted youth, my sore distress,
+  Alas, will _then_ seem happiness!
+
+
+
+
+THE INFINITE.
+
+
+  This lonely hill to me was ever dear,
+  This hedge, which shuts from view so large a part
+  Of the remote horizon. As I sit
+  And gaze, absorbed, I in my thought conceive
+  The boundless spaces that beyond it range,
+  The silence supernatural, and rest
+  Profound; and for a moment I am calm.
+  And as I listen to the wind, that through
+  These trees is murmuring, its plaintive voice
+  I with that infinite compare;
+  And things eternal I recall, and all
+  The seasons dead, and this, that round me lives,
+  And utters its complaint. Thus wandering
+  My thought in this immensity is drowned;
+  And sweet to me is shipwreck on this sea.
+
+
+
+
+THE EVENING OF THE HOLIDAY.
+
+
+  The night is mild and clear, and without wind,
+  And o'er the roofs, and o'er the gardens round
+  The moon shines soft, and from afar reveals
+  Each mountain-peak serene. O lady, mine,
+  Hushed now is every path, and few and dim
+  The lamps that glimmer through the balconies.
+  Thou sleepest! in thy quiet rooms, how light
+  And easy is thy sleep! No care thy heart
+  Consumes; and little dost thou know or think,
+  How deep a wound thou in my heart hast made.
+  Thou sleepest; I to yonder heaven turn,
+  That seems to greet me with a loving smile,
+  And to that Nature old, omnipotent,
+  That doomed me still to suffer. "I to thee
+  All hope deny," she said, "e'en hope; nor may
+  Those eyes of thine e'er shine, save through their tears."
+
+  This was a holiday; its pleasures o'er,
+  Thou seek'st repose; and happy in thy dreams
+  Recallest those whom thou hast pleased to-day,
+  And those who have pleased thee: not I, indeed,--
+  I hoped it not,--unto thy thoughts occur.
+  Meanwhile, I ask, how much of life remains
+  To me; and on the earth I cast myself,
+  And cry, and groan. How wretched are my days,
+  And still so young! Hark, on the road I hear,
+  Not far away, the solitary song
+  Of workman, who returns at this late hour,
+  In merry mood, unto his humble home;
+  And in my heart a cruel pang I feel,
+  At thought, how all things earthly pass away,
+  And leave no trace behind. This festal day
+  Hath fled; a working-day now follows it,
+  And all, alike, are swept away by Time.
+  Where is the glory of the antique nations now?
+  Where now the fame of our great ancestors?
+  The empire vast of Rome, the clash of arms?
+  Now all is peace and silence, all the world
+  At rest; their very names are heard no more.
+  E'en from my earliest years, when we
+  Expect so eagerly a holiday,
+  The moment it was past, I sought my couch,
+  Wakeful and sad; and at the midnight hour,
+  When I the song heard of some passer-by,
+  That slowly in the distance died away,
+  The same deep anguish felt I in my heart.
+
+
+
+
+TO THE MOON.
+
+
+  O lovely moon, how well do I recall
+  The time,--'tis just a year--when up this hill
+  I came, in my distress, to gaze at thee:
+  And thou suspended wast o'er yonder grove,
+  As now thou art, which thou with light dost fill.
+  But stained with mist, and tremulous, appeared
+  Thy countenance to me, because my eyes
+  Were filled with tears, that could not be suppressed;
+  For, oh, my life was wretched, wearisome,
+  And _is_ so still, unchanged, beloved moon!
+  And yet this recollection pleases me,
+  This computation of my sorrow's age.
+  How pleasant is it, in the days of youth,
+  When hope a long career before it hath,
+  And memories are few, upon the past
+  To dwell, though sad, and though the sadness last!
+
+
+
+
+THE DREAM.
+
+
+  It was the morning; through the shutters closed,
+  Along the balcony, the earliest rays
+  Of sunlight my dark room were entering;
+  When, at the time that sleep upon our eyes
+  Its softest and most grateful shadows casts,
+  There stood beside me, looking in my face,
+  The image dear of her, who taught me first
+  To love, then left me to lament her loss.
+  To me she seemed not dead, but sad, with such
+  A countenance as the unhappy wear.
+  Her right hand near my head she sighing placed;
+  "Dost thou still live," she said to me, "and dost
+  Thou still remember what we _were_ and are?"
+  And I replied: "Whence comest thou, and how,
+  Beloved and beautiful? Oh how, how I
+  Have grieved, still grieve for thee! Nor did I think
+  Thou e'er couldst know it more; and oh, that thought
+  My sorrow rendered more disconsolate!
+  But art thou now again to leave me?
+  I fear so. Say, what hath befallen thee?
+  Art thou the same? What preys upon thee thus?"
+  "Oblivion weighs upon thy thoughts, and sleep
+  Envelops them," she answered; "I am dead,
+  And many months have passed, since last we met."
+  What grief oppressed me, as these words I heard!
+  And she continued: "In the flower of youth
+  Cut off, when life is sweetest, and before
+  The heart that lesson sad and sure hath learnt,
+  The utter vanity of human hope!
+  The sick man may e'en covet, as a boon,
+  That which withdraws him from all suffering;
+  But to the young, Death comes, disconsolate;
+  And hard the fate of hope, that in the grave
+  Is quenched! And yet, how vain that knowledge is,
+  That Nature from the inexperienced hides!
+  And a blind sorrow is to be preferred
+  To wisdom premature!"--"Hush, hush!" I cried,
+  "Unhappy one, and dear! My heart is crushed
+  With these thy words! And art thou dead, indeed,
+  O my beloved? and am I still alive?
+  And was it, then, in heaven decreed, that this,
+  Thy tender body the last damps of death
+  Should feel, and my poor, wretched frame remain
+  Unharmed? Oh, often, often as I think
+  That thou no longer livest, and that I
+  Shall never see thee on the earth again,
+  Incredible it seems! Alas, alas!
+  What _is_ this thing, that they call death? Oh, would
+  That I, this day, the mystery could solve,
+  And my defenceless head withdraw from Fate's
+  Relentless hate! I still am young, and still
+  Feel all the blight and misery of age,
+  Which I so dread; and distant far it seems;
+  But, ah, how little different from age,
+  The flower of my years!"--"We both were born,"
+  She said, "to weep; unhappy were our lives,
+  And heaven took pleasure in our sufferings."
+  "Oh if my eyes with tears," I added, "then,
+  My face with pallor veiled thou seest, for loss
+  Of thee, and anguish weighing on my heart;
+  Tell me, was any spark of pity or of love
+  For the poor lover kindled in thy heart,
+  While thou didst live? I, then, between my hope
+  And my despair, passed weary nights and days;
+  And now, my mind is with vain doubts oppressed.
+  Oh if but once compassion smote thee for
+  My darkened life, conceal it not from me,
+  I pray thee; let the memory console me,
+  Since of their future our young days were robbed!"
+  And she: "Be comforted, unhappy one!
+  I was not churlish of my pity whilst
+  I lived, and am not now, myself so wretched!
+  Oh, do not chide this most unhappy child!"
+  "By all our sufferings, and by the love
+  Which preys upon me," I exclaimed, "and by
+  Our youth, and by the hope that faded from
+  Our lives, O let me, dearest, touch thy hand!"
+  And sweetly, sadly, she extended it.
+  And while I covered it with kisses, while
+  With sorrow and with rapture quivering,
+  I to my panting bosom fondly pressed it,
+  With fervent passion glowed my face and breast,
+  My trembling voice refused its utterance,
+  And all things swam before my sight; when she,
+  Her eyes fixed tenderly on mine, replied:
+  "And dost thou, then, forget, dear friend, that I
+  Am of my beauty utterly deprived?
+  And vainly thou, unhappy one, dost yield
+  To passion's transports. Now, a last farewell!
+  Our wretched minds, our feeble bodies, too,
+  Eternally are parted. Thou to me
+  No longer livest, nevermore shall live.
+  Fate hath annulled the faith that thou hast sworn."
+  Then, in my anguish as I seemed to cry
+  Aloud, convulsed, my eyes o'erflowing with
+  The tears of utter, helpless misery,
+  I started from my sleep. The image still
+  Was seen, and in the sun's uncertain light
+  Above my couch she seemed to linger still.
+
+
+
+
+THE LONELY LIFE.
+
+
+  The morning rain, when, from her coop released,
+  The hen, exulting, flaps her wings, when from
+  The balcony the husbandman looks forth,
+  And when the rising sun his trembling rays
+  Darts through the falling drops, against my roof
+  And windows gently beating, wakens me.
+  I rise, and grateful, bless the flying clouds,
+  The cheerful twitter of the early birds,
+  The smiling fields, and the refreshing air.
+  For I of you, unhappy city walls,
+  Enough have seen and known; where hatred still
+  Companion is to grief; and grieving still
+  I live, and so shall die, and that, how soon!
+  But here some pity Nature shows, though small,
+  Once in this spot to me so courteous!
+  Thou, too, O Nature, turn'st away thy gaze
+  From misery; thou, too, thy sympathy
+  Withholding from the suffering and the sad,
+  Dost homage pay to royal happiness.
+  No friend in heaven, on earth, the wretched hath,
+  No refuge, save his trusty dagger's edge.
+  Sometimes I sit in perfect solitude,
+  Upon a hill, that overlooks a lake,
+  That is encircled quite with silent trees.
+  There, when the sun his mid-day course hath reached,
+  His tranquil face he in a mirror sees:
+  Nor grass nor leaf is shaken by the wind;
+  There is no ripple on the wave, no chirp
+  Of cricket, rustling wing of bird in bush,
+  Nor hum of butterfly; no motion, voice,
+  Or far or near, is either seen or heard.
+  Its shores are locked in quiet most profound;
+  So that myself, the world I quite forget,
+  As motionless I sit; my limbs appear
+  To lie dissolved, of breath and sense deprived;
+  As if, in immemorial rest, they seemed
+  Confounded with the silent scene around.
+
+  O love, O love, long since, thou from this breast
+  Hast flown, that was so warm, so ardent, once.
+  Misfortune in her cold and cruel grasp
+  Has held it fast, and it to ice has turned,
+  E'en in the flower of my youth. The time
+  I well recall, when thou this heart didst fill;
+  That sweet, irrevocable time it was,
+  When this unhappy scene of life unto
+  The ardent gaze of youth reveals itself,
+  Expands, and wears the smile of Paradise.
+  How throbs the heart within the boyish breast,
+  By virgin hope and fond desire impelled!
+  The wretched dupe for life's hard work prepares,
+  As if it were a dance, or merry game.
+  But when _I_ first, O love, thy presence felt,
+  Misfortune had already crushed my life,
+  And these poor eyes with constant tears were filled.
+  Yet if, at times, upon the sun-lit slopes,
+  At silent dawn, or when, in broad noonday,
+  The roofs and hills and fields are shining bright,
+  I of some lonely maiden meet the gaze;
+  Or when, in silence of the summer night,
+  My wandering steps arresting, I before
+  The houses of the village pause, to gaze
+  Upon the lonely scene, and hear the voice,
+  So clear and cheerful, of the maiden, who,
+  Her ditty chanting, in her quiet room,
+  Her daily task protracts into the night,
+  Ah, then this stony heart will throb once more;
+  But soon, alas, its lethargy returns,
+  For all things sweet are strangers to this breast!
+
+  Beloved moon, beneath whose tranquil rays
+  The hares dance in the groves, and at the dawn
+  The huntsman, vexed at heart, beholds the tracks
+  Confused and intricate, that from their forms
+  His steps mislead; hail, thou benignant Queen
+  Of Night! How unpropitious fall thy rays,
+  Among the cliffs and thickets, or within
+  Deserted buildings, on the gleaming steel
+  Of robber pale, who with attentive ear
+  Unto the distant noise of horses and
+  Of wheels, is listening, or the tramp of feet
+  Upon the silent road; then, suddenly,
+  With sound of arms, and hoarse, harsh voice, and look
+  Of death, the traveller's heart doth chill,
+  Whom he half-dead, and naked, shortly leaves
+  Among the rocks. How unpropitious, too,
+  Is thy bright light along the city streets,
+  Unto the worthless paramour, who picks
+  His way, close to the walls, in anxious search
+  Of friendly shade, and halts, and dreads the sight
+  Of blazing lamps, and open balconies.
+  To evil spirits unpropitious still,
+  To _me_ thy face will ever seem benign,
+  Along these heights, where nought save smiling hills,
+  And spacious fields, thou offer'st to my view.
+  And yet it was my wayward custom once,
+  Though I was innocent, thy gracious ray
+  To chide, amid the haunts of men, whene'er
+  It would my face to them betray, and when
+  It would their faces unto me reveal.
+  Now will I, grateful, sing its constant praise,
+  When I behold thee, sailing through the clouds,
+  Or when, mild sovereign of the realms of air,
+  Thou lookest down on this, our vale of tears.
+  Me wilt thou oft behold, mute wanderer
+  Among the groves, along the verdant banks,
+  Or seated on the grass, content enough,
+  If heart and breath are left me, for a sigh!
+
+
+
+
+CONSALVO.
+
+
+  Approaching now the end of his abode
+  On earth, Consalvo lay; complaining once,
+  Of his hard fate, but now quite reconciled,
+  When, in the midst of his fifth lustre, o'er
+  His head oblivion, so longed-for, hung.
+  As for some time, so, on his dying day,
+  He lay, abandoned by his dearest friends:
+  For in the world, few friends to _him_ will cling,
+  Who shows that he is weary of the world.
+  Yet _she_ was at his side, by pity led,
+  In his lone wretchedness to comfort him,
+  Who was alone and ever in his thought;
+  Elvira, for her loveliness renowned;
+  And knowing well her power; that a look,
+  A single sweet and gracious word from _her_,
+  A thousand-fold repeated in the heart,
+  Devoted, of her hapless lover, still
+  His consolation and support had been,
+  Although no word of love had she from him
+  E'er heard. For ever in his soul the power
+  Of great desire had been rebuked and crushed
+  By sovereign fear. So great a child and slave
+  Had he become, through his excess of love!
+  But death at last the cruel silence broke;
+  For being by sure signs convinced, that now
+  The day of his deliverance had come,
+  Her white hand taking, as she was about
+  To leave, and gently pressing it, he said:
+  "Thou goest; it is time for thee to go;
+  Farewell, Elvira! I shall never see
+  Thee more; too well I know it; so, farewell!
+  I thank thee for thy gentle sympathy,
+  So far as my poor lips my thanks can speak.
+  _He_ will reward thee, who alone has power,
+  If heaven e'er rewards the merciful."
+  Pale turned the fair one at these words; a sigh
+  Her bosom heaved; for e'en a stranger's heart
+  A throb responsive feels, when she departs,
+  And says farewell forever. Fain would she
+  Have contradicted him, the near approach
+  Of fate concealing from the dying man.
+  But he, her thought anticipating, said:
+  "Ah, much desired, as well thou knowest, death,
+  Much prayed for, and not dreaded, comes to me;
+  Nay, joyful seems to me this fatal day,
+  Save for the thought of losing thee forever;
+  Alas, forever do I part from thee!
+  In saying this my heart is rent in twain.
+  Those eyes I shall no more behold, nor hear
+  Thy voice. But, O Elvira, say, before
+  Thou leavest me forever, wilt thou not
+  One kiss bestow? A single kiss, in all
+  My life? A favor asked, who can deny
+  Unto a dying man? Of the sweet gift
+  I ne'er can boast, so near my end, whose lips
+  To-day will by a stranger's hand be closed
+  Forever." Saying this, with a deep sigh,
+  Her hand beloved he with his cold lips pressed.
+
+  The lovely woman stood irresolute,
+  And thoughtful, for a moment, with her look,
+  In which a thousand charms were radiant,
+  Intent on that of the unhappy man,
+  Where the last tear was glittering. Nor would
+  Her heart permit her to refuse with scorn
+  His wish, and by refusal, make more sad
+  The sad farewell; but she compassion took
+  Upon his love, which she had known so long;
+  And that celestial face, that mouth, which he
+  So long had coveted, which had, for years,
+  The burden been of all his dreams and sighs,
+  Close bringing unto his, so sad and wan,
+  Discolored by his mortal agony,
+  Kiss after kiss, all goodness, with a look
+  Of deep compassion, on the trembling lips
+  Of the enraptured lover she impressed.
+
+  What didst thou then become? How in thy eyes
+  Appeared life, death, and all thy suffering,
+  Consalvo, in thy flight now pausing? He
+  The hand, which still he held, of his beloved
+  Elvira, placing on his heart, whose last
+  Pulsations love with death was sharing, said:
+  "Elvira, my Elvira, am I still
+  On earth? Those lips, were they thy lips? O, say!
+  And do I press thy hand? Alas, it seems
+  A dead man's vision, or a dream, or thing
+  Incredible! How much, Elvira, O,
+  How much I owe to death! Long has my love
+  Been known to thee, and unto others, for
+  True love cannot be hidden on the earth.
+  Too manifest it was to thee, in looks,
+  In acts, in my unhappy countenance,
+  But never in my words. For then, and now,
+  Forever would the passion infinite,
+  That rules my heart, be silent, had not death
+  With courage filled it. I shall die content;
+  Henceforth, with destiny, no more regret
+  That I e'er saw the light. I have not lived
+  In vain, now that my lips have been allowed
+  Thy lips to press. Nay, happy I esteem
+  My lot. Two precious things the world still gives
+  To mortals, Love and Death. To one, heaven guides
+  Me now, in youth; and in the other, I
+  Am fortunate. Ah, hadst thou once, but once,
+  Responded to my long-enduring love,
+  To my changed eyes this earth for evermore
+  Had been transformed into a Paradise.
+  E'en to old age, detestable old age,
+  Could I have been resigned and reconciled.
+  To bear its heavy load, the memory
+  Of one transcendent moment had sufficed,
+  When I was happier than the happiest,
+  But, ah, such bliss supreme the envious gods
+  To earthly natures ne'er have given! Love
+  In such excess ne'er leads to happiness.
+  And yet, thy love to win, I would have borne
+  The tortures of the executioner;
+  Have faced the rack and fagot, dauntlessly;
+  Would from thy loving arms have rushed into
+  The fearful flames of hell, with cheerfulness.
+
+  "Elvira, O Elvira, happy he,
+  Beyond all mortal happiness, on whom
+  Thou dost the smile of love bestow! And next
+  Is he, who can lay down his life for thee!
+  It _is_ permitted, it is not a dream,
+  As I, alas, have always fancied it,
+  To man, on earth true happiness to find.
+  I knew it well, the day I looked on thee.
+  That look to me, indeed, has fatal been:
+  And yet, I could not bring myself, midst all
+  My sufferings, that cruel day to blame.
+
+  "Now live, Elvira, happy, and adorn
+  The world with thy fair countenance. None e'er
+  Will love thee as I loved thee. Such a love
+  Will ne'er be seen on earth. How much, alas,
+  How long a time by poor Consalvo hast
+  Thou been with sighs and bitter tears invoked!
+  How, when I heard thy name, have I turned pale!
+  How have I trembled, and been sick at heart,
+  As timidly thy threshold I approached,
+  At that angelic voice, at sight of that
+  Fair brow, I, who now tremble not at death!
+  But breath and life no longer will respond
+  Unto the voice of love. The time has passed;
+  Nor can I e'er this happy day recall.
+  Farewell, Elvira! With its vital spark
+  Thy image so beloved is from my heart
+  Forever fading. Oh, farewell! If this,
+  My love offend thee not, to-morrow eve
+  One sigh wilt thou bestow upon my bier."
+  He ceased; and soon he lost his consciousness:
+  Ere evening came, his first, his only day
+  Of happiness had faded from his sight.
+
+
+
+
+TO THE BELOVED.
+
+
+  Beauty beloved, who hast my heart inspired,
+  Seen from afar, or with thy face concealed,
+  Save, when in visions of the night revealed,
+  Or seen in daydreams bright,
+  When all the fields are filled with light,
+  And Nature's smile is sweet,
+  Say, hast thou blessed
+  Some golden age of innocence,
+  And floatest, now, a shadow, o'er the earth?
+  Or hath Fate's envious doom
+  Reserved thee for some happier day to come?
+
+  To see thee e'er alive,
+  No hope remains to me;
+  Unless perchance, when from this body free,
+  My wandering spirit, lone,
+  O'er some new path, to some new world hath flown.
+  E'en here, at first, I, at the dawn
+  Of this, my day, so dreary and forlorn,
+  Sought thee, to guide me on my weary way:
+  But none on earth resembles thee. E'en if
+  One were in looks and acts and words thy peer,
+  Though like thee, she less lovely would appear.
+
+  Amidst the deepest grief
+  That fate hath e'er to human lot assigned,
+  Could one but love thee on this earth,
+  Alive, and such as my thought painteth thee,
+  He would be happy in his misery:
+  And I most clearly see, how, still,
+  As in my earliest days,
+  Thy love would make me cling to virtue's ways.
+  Unto _my_ grief heaven hath no comfort brought;
+  And yet with thee, this mortal life would seem
+  Like that in heaven, of which we fondly dream.
+
+  Along the valleys where is heard
+  The song of the laborious husbandman,
+  And where I sit and moan
+  O'er youth's illusions gone;
+  Along the hills, where I recall with tears,
+  The vanished joys and hopes of earlier years,
+  At thought of thee, my heart revives again.
+  O could I still thy image dear retain,
+  In this dark age, and in this baleful air!
+  To loss of thee, O let me be resigned,
+  And in thy image still some comfort find!
+
+  If thou art one of those
+  Ideas eternal, which the Eternal Mind
+  Refused in earthly form to clothe,
+  Nor would subject unto the pain and strife
+  Of this, our frail and dreary life;
+  Or if thou hast a mansion fair,
+  Amid the boundless realms of space,
+  That lighted is by a more genial sun,
+  And breathest there a more benignant air;
+  From here, where brief and wretched are our days,
+  Receive thy humble lover's hymn of praise!
+
+
+
+
+TO COUNT CARLO PEPOLI.
+
+
+  This wearisome and this distressing sleep
+  That we call life, O how dost thou support,
+  My Pepoli? With what hopes feedest thou
+  Thy heart? Say in what thoughts, and in what deeds,
+  Agreeable or sad, dost thou invest
+  The idleness thy ancestors bequeathed
+  To thee, a dull and heavy heritage?
+  All life, indeed, in every walk of life,
+  Is idleness, if we may give that name
+  To every work achieved, or effort made,
+  That has no worthy aim in view, or fails
+  That aim to reach. And if you idle call
+  The busy crew, that daily we behold,
+  From tranquil morn unto the dewy eve,
+  Behind the plough, or tending plants and flocks,
+  Because they live simply to keep alive,
+  And life is worthless for itself alone,
+  The honest truth you speak. His nights and days
+  The pilot spends in idleness; the toil
+  And sweat in workshops are but idleness;
+  The soldier's vigils, perils of the field,
+  The eager merchant's cares are idle all;
+  Because true happiness, for which alone
+  Our mortal nature longs and strives, no man,
+  Or for himself, or others, e'er acquires
+  Through toil or sweat, through peril, or through care.
+  Yet for this fierce desire, which mortals still
+  From the beginning of the world have felt,
+  But ever felt in vain, for happiness,
+  By way of soothing remedy devised,
+  Nature, in this unhappy life of ours,
+  Had manifold necessities prepared,
+  Not without thought or labor satisfied;
+  So that the days, though ever sad, less dull
+  Might seem unto the human family;
+  And this desire, bewildered and confused,
+  Might have less power to agitate the heart.
+  So, too, the various families of brutes,
+  Who have, no less than we, and vainly, too,
+  Desire for happiness; but they, intent
+  On that which is essential to their life,
+  Consume their days more pleasantly, by far,
+  Nor chide, with us, the dulness of the hours.
+  But _we_, who unto other hands commit
+  The furnishing of our immediate wants,
+  Have a necessity more grave to meet,
+  For which no other ever can provide,
+  With ennui laden, and with suffering;
+  The stern necessity of killing time;
+  That cruel, obstinate necessity,
+  From which, nor hoarded gold, nor wealth of flocks,
+  Nor fertile fields, nor sumptuous palaces,
+  Nor purple robes, the race of man can save.
+  And if one, scorning such a barren life,
+  And hating to behold the light of day,
+  Turns not a homicidal hand upon
+  Himself, anticipating sluggish Fate,
+  For the sharp sting of unappeased desire,
+  That vainly calls for happiness, he seeks,
+  In desperate chase, on every side, in vain,
+  A thousand inefficient remedies,
+  In lieu of that, which Nature gives to all.
+
+  One to his dress devotes himself, and hair,
+  His gait and gesture and the learned lore
+  Of horses, carriages, to crowded halls,
+  To thronged piazzas, and to gardens gay;
+  Another gives his nights and days to games,
+  And feasts, and dances with the reigning belles:
+  A smile perpetual is on his lips;
+  But in his breast, alas, stern and severe,
+  Like adamantine column motionless,
+  Eternal ennui sits, against whose might
+  Avail not vigorous youth, nor prattle fond
+  That falls from rosy lips, nor tender glance
+  That trembles in two dark and lustrous eyes;
+  The most bewildering of mortal things,
+  Most precious gift of heaven unto man.
+
+  Another, as if hoping to escape
+  Sad destiny, in changing lands and climes
+  His days consuming, wandering o'er sea
+  And hills, the whole earth traverses; each spot
+  That Nature, in her infinite domain,
+  To restless man hath made accessible,
+  He visits in his wanderings. Alas,
+  Black care is seated on the lofty prow;
+  Beneath each clime, each sky, he asks in vain
+  For happiness; sadness still lives and reigns.
+
+  Another in the cruel deeds of war
+  Prefers to pass his hours, and dips his hand,
+  For his diversion, in his brother's blood:
+  Another in his neighbor's misery
+  His comfort finds, and artfully contrives
+  To kill the time, in making others sad.
+  _This_ man still walks in wisdom's ways, or art
+  Pursues; _that_ tramples on the people's rights,
+  At home, abroad; the ancient rest disturbs
+  Of distant shores, on fraudful gain intent,
+  With cruel war, or sharp diplomacy;
+  And so his destined part of life consumes.
+
+  Thee a more gentle wish, a care more sweet
+  Leads and controls, still in the flower of youth,
+  In the fair April of thy days, to most
+  A time so pleasant, heaven's choicest gift;
+  But heavy, bitter, wearisome to _him_
+  Who has no country. Thee the love of song
+  Impels, and of portraying in thy speech
+  The beauty, that so seldom in the world
+  Appears and fades so soon, and _that_, more rare
+  Which fond imagination, kinder far
+  Than Nature, or than heaven, so bounteously
+  For our entranced, deluded souls provides.
+  Oh, fortunate a thousand-fold is he,
+  Who loses not his fancy's freshness as
+  The years roll by; whom envious Fate permits
+  To keep eternal sunshine in his heart,
+  Who, in his ripe and his declining years,
+  As was his custom in his glorious youth,
+  In his deep thought enhances Nature's charms,
+  Gives life to death, and to the desert, bloom.
+  May heaven this fortune give to thee; and may
+  The spark that now so warms thy breast, make thee
+  In thy old age a votary of song!
+  _I_ feel no more the sweet illusions of
+  That happy time; those charming images
+  Have faded from my eyes, that I so loved,
+  And which, unto my latest hour, will be
+  Remembered still, with hopeless sighs and tears.
+  And when this breast to all things has become
+  Insensible and cold, nor the sweet smile
+  And rest profound of lonely sun-lit plains,
+  Nor cheerful morning song of birds in spring,
+  Nor moonlight soft, that rests on hills and fields,
+  Beneath the limpid sky, will move my heart;
+  When every beauty, both of Nature, and
+  Of Art, to me will be inanimate
+  And mute; each tender feeling, lofty thought,
+  Unknown and strange; my only comfort, then,
+  Poor beggar, must I find in studies more
+  Severe; to them, thenceforward, must devote
+  The wretched remnant of unhappy life:
+  The bitter truth must I investigate,
+  The destinies mysterious, alike
+  Of mortal and immortal things;
+  For what was suffering humanity,
+  Bowed down beneath the weight of misery,
+  Created; to what final goal are Fate
+  And Nature urging it; to whom can our
+  Great sorrow any pleasure, profit give;
+  Beneath what laws and orders, to what end,
+  The mighty Universe revolves--the theme
+  Of wise men's praise, to _me_ a mystery?
+
+  I in these speculations will consume
+  My idleness; because the truth, when known,
+  Though sad, has yet its charms. And if, at times,
+  The truth discussing, my opinions should
+  Unwelcome be, or not be understood,
+  I shall not grieve, indeed, because in me
+  The love of fame will be extinguished quite;
+  Of fame, that idol frivolous and blind;
+  More blind by far than Fortune, or than Love.
+
+
+
+
+THE RESURRECTION.
+
+
+  I thought I had forever lost,
+    Alas, though still so young,
+  The tender joys and sorrows all,
+    That unto youth belong;
+
+  The sufferings sweet, the impulses
+    Our inmost hearts that warm;
+  Whatever gives this life of ours
+    Its value and its charm.
+
+  What sore laments, what bitter tears
+    O'er my sad state I shed,
+  When first I felt from my cold heart
+    Its gentle pains had fled!
+
+  Its throbs I felt no more; my love
+    Within me seemed to die;
+  Nor from my frozen, senseless breast
+    Escaped a single sigh!
+
+  I wept o'er my sad, hapless lot;
+    The life of life seemed lost;
+  The earth an arid wilderness,
+    Locked in eternal frost;
+
+  The day how dreary, and the night
+    How dull, and dark, and lone!
+  The moon for me no brightness had,
+    No star in heaven shone.
+
+  And yet the old love was the cause
+    Of all the tears I shed;
+  Still in my inmost breast I felt
+    The heart was not yet dead.
+
+  My weary fancy still would crave
+    The images it loved,
+  And its capricious longings still
+    A source of sorrow proved.
+
+  But e'en that lingering spark of grief
+    Was soon within me spent,
+  And I the strength no longer had
+    To utter a lament.
+
+  And there I lay, stunned, stupefied,
+    Nor asked for comfort more;
+  My heart to hopeless, blank despair
+    Itself had given o'er.
+
+  How changed, alas, was I from him
+    Who once with passion thrilled,
+  Whose ardent soul was ever, once,
+    With sweet illusions filled!
+
+  The swallow to my window, still,
+    Would come, to greet the dawn;
+  But his sweet song no echo found
+    In my poor heart, forlorn.
+
+  Nor pleased me more, in autumn gray,
+    Upon the hill-side lone,
+  The cheerful vesper-bell, or light
+    Of the departing sun.
+
+  In vain the evening star I saw
+    Above the silent vale,
+  And vainly warbled in the grove
+    The plaintive nightingale.
+
+  And you, ye furtive glances, bright,
+    From gentle eyes that rove,
+  The sweet, the gracious messages
+    Of first immortal Love;
+
+  The soft, white hand, that tenderly
+    My own hand seemed to woo;
+  All, all your magic spells were vain,
+    My torpor to subdue.
+
+  Of every pleasure quite bereft,
+    Sad but of tranquil mien;
+  A state of perfect littleness,
+    Yet with a face serene;
+
+  Save for the lingering wish, indeed,
+    In death to sink to rest,
+  The force of all desire was spent
+    In my exhausted breast.
+
+  As some poor, feeble wanderer,
+    With age and sorrow bent,
+  The April of my years, alas,
+    Thus listlessly I spent;
+
+  Thus listlessly, thus wearily,
+    Didst thou consume, O heart,
+  Those golden days, ineffable,
+    So swiftly that depart.
+
+  _Who_, from this heavy, heedless rest
+    Awakens me again?
+  What new, what magic power is this,
+    I feel within me reign?
+
+  Ye motions sweet, ye images,
+    Ye throbs, illusions blest,
+  Ah, no,--ye are not then shut out
+    Forever from this breast?
+
+  The glorious light of golden days
+    Do ye again unfold?
+  The old affections that I lost,
+    Do I once more behold?
+
+  Now, as I gaze upon the sky,
+    Or on the verdant fields,
+  Each thing with sorrow me inspires,
+    And each a pleasure yields.
+
+  The mountain, forest, and the shore
+    Once more my heart rejoice;
+  The fountain speaks to me once more,
+    The sea hath found a voice.
+
+  Who, after all this apathy,
+    Restores to me my tears?
+  Each moment, as I look around,
+    How changed the world appears!
+
+  Hath hope, perchance, O my poor heart,
+    Beguiled thee of thy pain?
+  Ah, no, the gracious smile of hope
+    I ne'er shall see again.
+
+  Nature bestowed these impulses,
+    And these illusions blest;
+  Their inborn influence, in me,
+    By suffering was suppressed;
+
+  But not annulled, not overcome
+    By cruel blows of Fate;
+  Nor by the inauspicious frown
+    Of Truth, importunate!
+
+  I know she has no sympathy
+    For fond imaginings;
+  I know that Nature, too, is deaf,
+    Nor heeds our sufferings;
+
+  That for our _good_ she nothing cares,
+    Our _being_, only heeds;
+  And with the sight of our distress
+    Her wild caprices feeds.
+
+  I know the poor man pleads in vain,
+    For others' sympathy;
+  That scornfully, or heedlessly,
+    All from his presence flee;
+
+  That both for genius and for worth,
+    This age has no respect;
+  That all who cherish lofty aims
+    Are left to cold neglect.
+
+  And you, ye eyes so tremulous
+    With lustre all divine,
+  I know how false your splendors are,
+    Where no true love doth shine.
+
+  No love mysterious and profound
+    Illumes you with its glow;
+  Nor gleams one spark of genial fire
+    Beneath that breast of snow.
+
+  Nay, it is wont to laugh to scorn
+    Another's tender pain;
+  The fervent flame of heavenly love
+    To treat with cold disdain.
+
+  Yet I with thankfulness once more
+    The old illusions greet,
+  And feel, with shock of pleased surprise,
+    The heart within me beat.
+
+  To thee alone this force renewed,
+    This vital power I owe;
+  From thee alone, my faithful heart,
+    My only comforts flow.
+
+  I feel it is the destiny
+    Of every noble mind,
+  In Fate, in Fortune, Beauty, and the World,
+    An enemy to find:
+
+  But while thou liv'st, nor yield'st to Fate,
+    Contending without fear,
+  I will not tax with cruelty
+    The power that placed me here.
+
+
+
+
+TO SYLVIA.
+
+
+  O Sylvia, dost thou remember still
+  That period of thy mortal life,
+  When beauty so bewildering
+  Shone in thy laughing, glancing eyes,
+  As thou, so merry, yet so wise,
+  Youth's threshold then wast entering?
+
+  How did the quiet rooms,
+  And all the paths around,
+  With thy perpetual song resound,
+  As thou didst sit, on woman's work intent,
+  Abundantly content
+  With the vague future, floating on thy mind!
+  Thy custom thus to spend the day
+  In that sweet time of youth and May!
+
+  How could I, then, at times,
+  In those fair days of youth,
+  The only happy days I ever knew,
+  My hard tasks dropping, or my careless rhymes,
+  My station take, on father's balcony,
+  And listen to thy voice's melody,
+  And watch thy hands, as they would deftly fly
+  O'er thy embroidery!
+  I gazed upon the heaven serene,
+  The sun-lit paths, the orchards green,
+  The distant mountain here,
+  And there, the far-off sea.
+  Ah, mortal tongue cannot express
+  What then I felt of happiness!
+
+  What gentle thoughts, what hopes divine,
+  What loving hearts, O Sylvia mine!
+  In what bright colors then portrayed
+  Were human life and fate!
+  Oh, when I think of such fond hopes betrayed,
+  A feeling seizes me
+  Of bitterness and misery,
+  And tenfold is my grief renewed!
+  O Nature, why this treachery?
+  Why thus, with broken promises,
+  Thy children's hearts delude?
+
+  Thou, ere the grass was touched with winter's frost,
+  By fell disease attacked and overcome,
+  O tender plant, didst die!
+  The flower of thy days thou ne'er didst see;
+  Nor did thy soft heart move
+  Now of thy raven locks the tender praise,
+  Now of thy eyes, so loving and so shy;
+  Nor with thee, on the holidays,
+  Did thy companions talk of love.
+
+  So perished, too, erelong,
+  My own sweet hope;
+  So too, unto my years
+  Did Fate their youth deny.
+  Alas, alas the day,
+  Lamented hope, companion dear,
+  How hast thou passed away!
+  Is _this_ that world? These the delights,
+  The love, the labors, the events,
+  Of which we once so fondly spoke?
+  And must _all_ mortals wear this weary yoke?
+  Ah, when the truth appeared,
+  It better seemed to die!
+  Cold death, the barren tomb, didst thou prefer
+  To harsh reality.
+
+
+
+
+RECOLLECTIONS.
+
+
+  Ye dear stars of the Bear, I did not think
+  I should again be turning, as I used,
+  To see you over father's garden shine,
+  And from the windows talk with you again
+  Of this old house, where as a child I dwelt,
+  And where I saw the end of all my joys.
+  What charming images, what fables, once,
+  The sight of you created in my thought,
+  And of the lights that bear you company!
+  Silent upon the verdant clod I sat,
+  My evening thus consuming, as I gazed
+  Upon the heavens, and listened to the chant
+  Of frogs that in the distant marshes croaked;
+  While o'er the hedges, ditches, fire-flies roamed,
+  And the green avenues and cypresses
+  In yonder grove were murmuring to the wind;
+  While in the house were heard, at intervals,
+  The voices of the servants at their work.
+  What thoughts immense in me the sight inspired
+  Of that far sea, and of the mountains blue,
+  That yonder I behold, and which I thought
+  One day to cross, mysterious worlds and joys
+  Mysterious in the future fancying!
+  Of my hard fate unconscious, and how oft
+  This sorrowful and barren life of mine
+  I willingly would have for death exchanged!
+
+  Nor did my heart e'er tell me, I should be
+  Condemned the flower of my youth to spend
+  In this wild native region, and amongst
+  A wretched, clownish crew, to whom the names
+  Of wisdom, learning, are but empty sounds,
+  Or arguments of laughter and of scorn;
+  Who hate, avoid me; not from envy, no;
+  For they do not esteem me better than
+  Themselves, but fancy that I, in my heart,
+  That feeling cherish; though I strive, indeed,
+  No token of such feeling to display.
+  And here I pass my years, abandoned, lost,
+  Of love deprived, of life; and rendered fierce,
+  'Mid such a crowd of evil-minded ones,
+  My pity and my courtesy I lose,
+  And I become a scorner of my race,
+  By such a herd surrounded; meanwhile, fly
+  The precious hours of youth, more precious far
+  Than fame, or laurel, or the light of day,
+  Or breath of life: thus uselessly, without
+  One joy, I lose thee, in this rough abode,
+  Whose only guests are care and suffering,
+  O thou, the only flower of barren life!
+
+  The wind now from the tower of the town
+  The deep sound of the bell is bringing. Oh,
+  What comfort was that sound to me, a child,
+  When in my dark and silent room I lay,
+  Besieged by terrors, longing for the dawn!
+  Whate'er I see or hear, recalls to mind
+  Some vivid image, recollection sweet;
+  Sweet in itself, but O how bitter made
+  By painful sense of present suffering,
+  By idle longing for the past, though sad,
+  And by the still recurring thought, "_I was_"!
+  Yon gallery that looks upon the west;
+  Those frescoed walls, these painted herds, the sun
+  Just rising o'er the solitary plain,
+  My idle hours with thousand pleasures filled,
+  While busy Fancy, at my side, still spread
+  Her bright illusions, wheresoe'er I went.
+  In these old halls, when gleamed the snow without,
+  And round these ample windows howled the wind,
+  My sports resounded, and my merry words,
+  In those bright days, when all the mysteries
+  And miseries of things an aspect wear,
+  So full of sweetness; when the ardent youth
+  Sees in his untried life a world of charms,
+  And, like an unexperienced lover, dotes
+  On heavenly beauty, creature of his dreams!
+
+  O hopes, illusions of my early days!--
+  Of you I still must speak, to you return;
+  For neither flight of time, nor change of thoughts,
+  Or feelings, can efface you from my mind.
+  Full well I know that honor and renown
+  Are phantoms; pleasures but an idle dream;
+  That life, a useless misery, has not
+  One solid fruit to show; and though my days
+  Are empty, wearisome, my mortal state
+  Obscure and desolate, I clearly see
+  That Fortune robs me but of little. Yet,
+  Alas! as often as I dwell on you,
+  Ye ancient hopes, and youthful fancy's dreams,
+  And then look at the blank reality,
+  A life of ennui and of wretchedness;
+  And think, that of so vast a fund of hope,
+  Death is, to-day, the only relic left,
+  I feel oppressed at heart, I feel myself
+  Of every comfort utterly bereft.
+  And when the death, that I have long invoked,
+  Shall be at hand, the end be reached of all
+  My sufferings; when this vale of tears shall be
+  To me a stranger, and the future fade,
+  Fade from sight forever; even then, shall I
+  Recall you; and your images will make
+  Me sigh; the thought of having lived in vain,
+  Will then intrude, with bitterness to taint
+  The sweetness of that day of destiny.
+
+  Nay, in the first tumultuous days of youth,
+  With all its joys, desires, and sufferings,
+  I often called on death, and long would sit
+  By yonder fountain, longing, in its waves
+  To put an end alike to hope and grief.
+  And afterwards, by lingering sickness brought
+  Unto the borders of the grave, I wept
+  O'er my lost youth, the flower of my days,
+  So prematurely fading; often, too,
+  At late hours sitting on my conscious bed,
+  Composing, by the dim light of the lamp,
+  I with the silence and the night would moan
+  O'er my departing soul, and to myself
+  In languid tones would sing my funeral-song.
+
+  Who can remember you without a sigh,
+  First entrance into manhood, O ye days
+  Bewitching, inexpressible, when first
+  On the enchanted mortal smiles the maid,
+  And all things round in emulation smile;
+  And envy holds its peace, not yet awake,
+  Or else in a benignant mood; and when,
+  --O marvel rare!--the world a helping hand
+  To him extends, his faults excuses, greets
+  His entrance into life, with bows and smiles
+  Acknowledges his claims to its respect?
+  O fleeting days! How like the lightning's flash,
+  They vanish! And what mortal can escape
+  Unhappiness, who has already passed
+  That golden period, his own _good_ time,
+  That comes, alas, so soon to disappear?
+
+  And thou, Nerina, does not every spot
+  Thy memory recall? And couldst thou e'er
+  Be absent from my thought? Where art thou gone,
+  That here I find the memory alone,
+  Of thee, my sweet one? Thee thy native place
+  Beholds no more; that window, whence thou oft
+  Wouldst talk with me, which sadly now reflects
+  The light of yonder stars, is desolate.
+  Where art thou, that I can no longer hear
+  Thy gentle voice, as in those days of old,
+  When every faintest accent from thy lips
+  Was wont to turn me pale? Those days have gone.
+  They _have been_, my sweet love! And thou with them
+  Hast passed. To others now it is assigned
+  To journey to and fro upon the earth,
+  And others dwell amid these fragrant hills.
+  How quickly thou hast passed! Thy life was like
+  A dream. While dancing there, joy on thy brow
+  Resplendent shone, anticipations bright
+  Shone in thy eyes, the light of youth, when Fate
+  Extinguished them, and thou didst prostrate lie.
+  Nerina, in my heart the old love reigns.
+  If I at times still go unto some feast,
+  Or social gathering, unto myself
+  I say: "Nerina, thou no more to feast
+  Dost go, nor for the ball thyself adorn."
+  If May returns, when lovers offerings
+  Of flowers and of songs to maidens bring,
+  I say: "Nerina mine, to thee spring ne'er
+  Returns, and love no more its tribute brings."
+  Each pleasant day, each flowery field that I
+  Behold, each pleasure that I taste, the thought
+  Suggest: "Nerina pleasure knows no more,
+  The face of heaven and earth no more beholds."
+  Ah, thou hast passed, for whom I ever sigh!
+  Hast passed; and still the memory of thee
+  Remains, and with each thought and fancy blends
+  Each varying emotion of the heart;
+  And _will_ remain, so bitter, yet so sweet!
+
+
+
+
+NIGHT SONG OF A WANDERING SHEPHERD IN ASIA.
+
+
+  What doest thou in heaven, O moon?
+  Say, silent moon, what doest thou?
+  Thou risest in the evening; thoughtfully
+  Thou wanderest o'er the plain,
+  Then sinkest to thy rest again.
+  And art thou never satisfied
+  With going o'er and o'er the selfsame ways?
+  Art never wearied? Dost thou still
+  Upon these valleys love to gaze?
+  How much thy life is like
+  The shepherd's life, forlorn!
+  He rises in the early dawn,
+  He moves his flock along the plain;
+  The selfsame flocks, and streams, and herbs
+  He sees again;
+  Then drops to rest, the day's work o'er;
+  And hopes for nothing more.
+  Tell me, O moon, what signifies his life
+  To him, thy life to thee? Say, whither tend
+  My weary, short-lived pilgrimage,
+  Thy course, that knows no end?
+
+  And old man, gray, infirm,
+  Half-clad, and barefoot, he,
+  Beneath his burden bending wearily,
+  O'er mountain and o'er vale,
+  Sharp rocks, and briars, and burning sand,
+  In wind, and storm, alike in sultry heat
+  And in the winter's cold,
+  His constant course doth hold;
+  On, on, he, panting, goes,
+  Nor pause, nor rest he knows;
+  Through rushing torrents, over watery wastes;
+  He falls, gets up again,
+  And ever more and more he hastes,
+  Torn, bleeding, and arrives at last
+  Where ends the path,
+  Where all his troubles end;
+  A vast abyss and horrible,
+  Where plunging headlong, he forgets them all.
+  Such scene of suffering, and of strife,
+  O moon, is this our mortal life.
+  In travail man is born;
+  His birth too oft the cause of death,
+  And with his earliest breath
+  He pain and torment feels: e'en from the first,
+  His parents fondly strive
+  To comfort him in his distress;
+  And if he lives and grows,
+  They struggle hard, as best they may,
+  With pleasant words and deeds to cheer him up,
+  And seek with kindly care,
+  To strengthen him his cruel lot to bear.
+  This is the best that they can do
+  For the poor child, however fond and true.
+  But wherefore give him life?
+  Why bring him up at all,
+  If _this_ be all?
+  If life is nought but pain and care,
+  Why, why should we the burden bear?
+  O spotless moon, such _is_
+  Our mortal life, indeed;
+  But thou immortal art,
+  Nor wilt, perhaps, unto my words give heed.
+
+  Yet thou, eternal, lonely wanderer,
+  Who, thoughtful, lookest on this earthly scene,
+  Must surely understand
+  What all our sighs and sufferings mean;
+  What means this death,
+  This color from our cheeks that fades,
+  This passing from the earth, and losing sight
+  Of every dear, familiar scene.
+  Well must thou comprehend
+  The reason of these things; must see
+  The good the morning and the evening bring:
+  Thou knowest, thou, what love it is
+  That brings sweet smiles unto the face of spring;
+  The meaning of the Summer's glow,
+  And of the Winter's frost and snow,
+  And of the silent, endless flight of Time.
+  A thousand things to thee their secrets yield,
+  That from the simple shepherd are concealed.
+  Oft as I gaze at thee,
+  In silence resting o'er the desert plain,
+  Which in the distance borders on the sky,
+  Or following me, as I, by slow degrees,
+  My flocks before me drive;
+  And when I gaze upon the stars at night,
+  In thought I ask myself,
+  "Why all these torches bright?
+  What mean these depths of air,
+  This vast, this silent sky,
+  This nightly solitude? And what am I?"
+  Thus to myself I talk; and of this grand,
+  Magnificent expanse,
+  And its untold inhabitants,
+  And all this mighty motion, and this stir
+  Of things above, and things below,
+  No rest that ever know,
+  But as they still revolve, must still return
+  Unto the place from which they came,--
+  Of this, alas, I find nor end nor aim!
+  But thou, immortal, surely knowest all.
+  _This_ I well know, and feel;
+  From these eternal rounds,
+  And from my being frail,
+  Others, perchance, may pleasure, profit gain;
+  To _me_ life is but pain.
+
+  My flock, now resting there, how happy thou,
+  That knowest not, I think, thy misery!
+  O how I envy thee!
+  Not only that from suffering
+  Thou seemingly art free;
+  That every trouble, every loss,
+  Each sudden fear, thou canst so soon forget;
+  But more because thou sufferest
+  No weariness of mind.
+  When in the shade, upon the grass reclined,
+  Thou seemest happy and content,
+  And great part of the year by thee
+  In sweet release from care is spent.
+  But when _I_ sit upon the grass
+  And in the friendly shade, upon my mind
+  A weight I feel, a sense of weariness,
+  That, as I sit, doth still increase
+  And rob me of all rest and peace.
+  And yet I wish for nought,
+  And have, till now, no reason to complain.
+  What joy, how much I cannot say;
+  But thou _some_ pleasure dost obtain.
+  My joys are few enough;
+  But not for that do I lament.
+  Ah, couldst thou speak, I would inquire:
+  Tell me, dear flock, the reason why
+  Each weary breast can rest at ease,
+  While all things round him seem to please;
+  And yet, if _I_ lie down to rest,
+  I am by anxious thoughts oppressed?
+
+  Perhaps, if I had wings
+  Above the clouds to fly,
+  And could the stars all number, one by one,
+  Or like the lightning leap from rock to rock,
+  I might be happier, my dear flock,
+  I might be happier, gentle moon!
+  Perhaps my thought still wanders from the truth,
+  When I at others' fortunes look:
+  Perhaps in every state beneath the sun,
+  Or high, or low, in cradle or in stall,
+  The day of birth is fatal to us all.
+
+
+
+
+CALM AFTER STORM.
+
+
+  The storm hath passed;
+  I hear the birds rejoice; the hen,
+  Returned into the road again,
+  Her cheerful notes repeats. The sky serene
+  Is, in the west, upon the mountain seen:
+  The country smiles; bright runs the silver stream.
+  Each heart is cheered; on every side revive
+  The sounds, the labors of the busy hive.
+  The workman gazes at the watery sky,
+  As standing at the door he sings,
+  His work in hand; the little wife goes forth,
+  And in her pail the gathered rain-drops brings;
+  The vendor of his wares, from lane to lane,
+  Begins his daily cry again.
+  The sun returns, and with his smile illumes
+  The villas on the neighboring hills;
+  Through open terraces and balconies,
+  The genial light pervades the cheerful rooms;
+  And, on the highway, from afar are heard
+  The tinkling of the bells, the creaking wheels
+  Of waggoner, his journey who resumes.
+
+  Cheered is each heart.
+  Whene'er, as now, doth life appear
+  A thing so pleasant and so dear?
+  When, with such love,
+  Does man unto his books or work return?
+  Or on himself new tasks impose?
+  When is he less regardful of his woes?
+  O pleasure, born of pain!
+  O idle joy, and vain,
+  Fruit of the fear just passed, which shook
+  The wretch who life abhorred, yet dreaded death!
+  With which each neighbor held his breath,
+  Silent, and cold, and wan,
+  Affrighted sore to see
+  The lightnings, clouds, and winds arrayed,
+  To do us injury!
+
+  O Nature courteous!
+  These are thy boons to us,
+  These the delights to mortals given!
+  Escape from pain, best gift of heaven!
+  Thou scatterest sorrows with a bounteous hand;
+  Grief springs spontaneous;
+  If, by some monstrous growth, miraculous,
+  Pleasure at times is born of pain,
+  It is a precious gain!
+  O human race, unto the gods so dear!
+  Too happy, in a respite brief
+  From any grief!
+  Then only blessed,
+  When Death releases thee unto thy rest!
+
+
+
+
+THE VILLAGE SATURDAY NIGHT.
+
+
+  The damsel from the field returns,
+  The sun is sinking in the west;
+  Her bundle on her head she sets,
+  And in her hand she bears
+  A bunch of roses and of violets.
+  To-morrow is a holiday,
+  And she, as usual, must them wear
+  Upon her bodice, in her hair.
+  The old crone sits among her mates,
+  Upon the stairs, and spins;
+  And, looking at the fading light,
+  Of good old-fashioned times she prates,
+  When she, too, dressed for holidays,
+  And with light heart, and limb as light,
+  Would dance at night
+  With the companions of her merry days.
+  The twilight shades around us close,
+  The sky to deepest blue is turned;
+  From hills and roofs the shadows fall,
+  And the new moon her face of silver shows.
+  And now the cheerful bell
+  Proclaims the coming festival.
+  By its familiar voice
+  How every heart is cheered!
+  The children all in troops,
+  Around the little square
+  Go, leaping here and there,
+  And make a joyful sound.
+  Meanwhile the ploughman, whistling, returns
+  Unto his humble nest,
+  And thinks with pleasure of his day of rest.
+
+  Then, when all other lights are out,
+  And all is silent round,
+  The hammer's stroke we hear,
+  We hear the saw of carpenter,
+  Who with closed doors his vigil keeps,
+  Toils o'er his lamp and strives so hard,
+  His work to finish ere the dawn appear.
+
+  The dearest day of all the week
+  Is this, of hope and joy so full;
+  To-morrow, sad and dull,
+  The hours will bring, for each must in his thought
+  His customary task-work seek.
+
+  Thou little, sportive boy,
+  This blooming age of thine
+  Is like to-day, so full of joy;
+  And is the day, indeed,
+  That must the sabbath of thy life precede.
+
+  Enjoy, it, then, my darling child,
+  Nor speed the flying hours!
+  I say to thee no more:
+  Alas, in this sad world of ours,
+  How far exceeds the holiday,
+  The day that goes before!
+
+
+
+
+THE RULING THOUGHT.
+
+
+  Most sweet, most powerful,
+  Controller of my inmost soul;
+  The terrible, yet precious gift
+  Of heaven, companion kind
+  Of all my days of misery,
+  O thought, that ever dost recur to me;
+
+  Of thy mysterious power
+  Who speaketh not? Who hath not felt
+  Its subtle influence?
+  Yet, when one is by feeling deep impelled
+  Its secret joys and sorrows to unfold,
+  The theme seems ever new however old.
+
+  How isolated is my mind,
+  Since thou in it hast come to dwell!
+  As by some magic spell,
+  My other thoughts have all,
+  Like lightning, disappeared;
+  And thou, alone, like some huge tower,
+  In a deserted plain,
+  Gigantic, solitary, dost remain.
+
+  How worthless quite,
+  Save but for thee, have in my sight
+  All earthly things, and life itself become!
+  How wearisome its days;
+  And all its works, and all its plays,
+  A vain pursuit of pleasures vain,
+  Compared with the felicity,
+  The heavenly joy, that springs from thee!
+
+  As from the naked rocks
+  Of the rough Apennine,
+  The weary pilgrim turns his longing eyes
+  To the bright plain that in the distance lies;
+  So from the rough and barren intercourse
+  Of worldly men, to thee I gladly turn,
+  As to a Paradise, my weary mind,
+  And sweet refreshment for my senses find.
+
+  It seems to me incredible, that I
+  This dreary world, this wretched life,
+  So full of folly and of strife,
+  Without thy aid, could have so long endured;
+  Nor can I well conceive,
+  How one's desires _could_ cling
+  To other joys than those which thou dost bring.
+
+  Never, since first I knew
+  By hard experience what life is,
+  Could fear of death my soul subdue.
+  To-day, a jest to me appears,
+  That which the silly world,
+  Praising at times, yet ever hates and fears,
+  The last extremity!
+  If danger comes, I, with undaunted mien,
+  Its threats encounter with a smile serene.
+
+  I always hated coward souls,
+  And meanness held in scorn.
+  _Now_, each unworthy act
+  At once through all my senses thrills;
+  Each instance vile of human worthlessness,
+  My soul with holy anger fills.
+  This arrogant, this foolish age,
+  Which feeds itself on empty hopes,
+  Absorbed in trifles, virtue's enemy,
+  Which idly clamors for utility,
+  And has not sense enough to see
+  How _useless_ all life thenceforth must become,
+  I feel _beneath_ me, and its judgments laugh
+  To scorn. The motley crew,
+  The foes of every lofty thought,
+  Who laugh at _thee_, I trample under foot.
+
+  To that, which thee inspires,
+  What passion yieldeth not?
+  What other, save this one,
+  Controls our hearts' desires?
+  Ambition, avarice, disdain, and hate,
+  The love of power, love of fame,
+  What are they but an empty name,
+  Compared with it? And this,
+  The source, the spring of all,
+  That sovereign reigns within the breast,
+  Eternal laws have on our hearts impressed.
+
+  Life hath no value, meaning hath,
+  Save but for thee, our only hope and stay;
+  The sole excuse for Fate,
+  That cruelly hath placed us here,
+  To undergo such useless misery;
+  For thee alone, the wise man, not the fool,
+  To life still fondly clings,
+  Nor calls on death to end his sufferings.
+
+  Thy joys to gather, thou sweet thought,
+  Long years of sorrow I endure,
+  And bear of weary life the strain;
+  But not in vain!
+  And I would still return,
+  In spite of all my sad experience,
+  Towards such a goal, my course to recommence;
+  For through the sands, and through the viper-brood
+  Of this, our mortal wilderness,
+  My steps I ne'er so wearily have dragged
+  To thee, that all the danger and distress
+  Were not repaid by such pure happiness.
+
+  O what a world, what new immensity,
+  What paradise is that,
+  To which, so oft, by thy stupendous charm
+  Impelled, I seem to soar! Where I
+  Beneath a brighter light am wandering,
+  And my poor earthly state,
+  And all life's bitter truths forget!
+  Such are, I ween, the dreams
+  Of the Immortals. Ah, what _but_ a dream,
+  Art thou, sweet thought,
+  The truth, that thus embellished?
+  A dream, an error manifest!
+  But of a nature, still divine,
+  An error brave and strong,
+  That will with truth the fight prolong,
+  And oft for truth doth compensate;
+  Nor leave us e'er, till summoned hence by Fate.
+  And surely thou, my thought,
+  Thou sole sustainer of my days,
+  The cause beloved of sorrows infinite,
+  In Death alone wilt be extinguished quite;
+  For by sure signs within my soul I feel
+  Thy sovereign sway, perpetual.
+  All other fancies sweet
+  The aspect of the truth
+  Hath weakened ever. But whene'er I turn
+  To gaze again on her, of whom with thee
+  To speak, is all I live for, ah,
+  That great delight increases still,
+  That frenzy fine, the breath of life, to me!
+
+  Angelic beauty! Every lovely face,
+  On which I gaze,
+  A phantom seems to me,
+  That vainly strives to copy thee,
+  Of all the graces that our souls inthral,
+  Sole fount, divine original!
+
+  Since first I thee beheld,
+  Of what most anxious care of mine,
+  Hast thou not been the end and aim?
+  What day has ever passed, what hour,
+  When I thought not of thee? What dream of mine
+  Has not been haunted by thy face divine?
+  Angelic countenance, that we
+  In dreams, alas, alone may see,
+  What else on earth, what in the universe,
+  Do I e'er ask, or hope for, more,
+  Than those dear eyes forever to behold?
+  Than thy sweet thought still in my heart to hold?
+
+
+
+
+LOVE AND DEATH.
+
+
+  Children of Fate, in the same breath
+  Created were they, Love and Death.
+  Such fair creations ne'er were seen,
+  Or here below, or in the heaven serene.
+  The first, the source of happiness,
+  The fount whence flows the greatest bliss
+  That in the sea of being e'er is found;
+  The last each sorrow gently lulls,
+  Each harsh decree of Fate annuls.
+  Fair child with beauty crowned,
+  Sweet to behold, not such
+  As cowards paint her in their fright,
+  She in young Love's companionship
+  Doth often take delight,
+  As they o'er mortal paths together fly,
+  Chief comforters of every loyal heart.
+  Nor ever is the heart more wise
+  Than when Love smites it, nor defies
+  More scornfully life's misery,
+  And for no other lord
+  Will it all dangers face so readily.
+  When thou thy aid dost lend,
+  O Love, is courage born, or it revives;
+  And wise in deeds the race of man becomes,
+  And not, as it is prone,
+  In fruitless thought alone.
+
+  And when first in our being's depth
+  This passion deep is born,
+  Though happy, we are still forlorn;
+  A languor strange doth o'er us steal;
+  A strange desire of death we feel.
+  I know not why, but such we ever prove
+  The first effect of true and potent love.
+  It may be, that this wilderness
+  Then first appals our sight;
+  And earth henceforth to us a dreary waste
+  Appears, without that new, supreme delight,
+  That in our thought is fondly traced;
+  And yet our hearts, foreboding, feel the storm
+  Within, that it may cause, the misery.
+  We long for rest, we long to flee,
+  Hoping some friendly haven may be found
+  Of refuge from the fierce desire,
+  That raging, roaring, darkens all around.
+
+  And when this formidable power
+  Hath his whole soul possessed,
+  And raging care will give his heart no rest,
+  How many times implored
+  With most intense desire,
+  Art thou, O Death, by the poor wretch, forlorn!
+  How oft at eve, how oft at dawn,
+  His weary frame upon the couch he throws,
+  Too happy, if he never rose,
+  In hopeless conflict with his pain,
+  Nor e'er beheld the bitter light again!
+  And oft, at sound of funeral bell,
+  And solemn chant, that guides
+  Departed souls unto eternal rest,
+  With sighs most ardent from his inmost breast,
+  How hath he envied him,
+  Who with the dead has gone to dwell!
+  The very humblest of his kind,
+  The simple, rustic hind, who knows
+  No charm that knowledge gives;
+  The lowliest country lass that lives,
+  Who, at the very thought of death,
+  Doth feel her hair in horror rise,
+  Will calmly face its agonies,
+  Upon the terrors of the tomb will gaze
+  With fixed, undaunted look,
+  Will o'er the steel and poison brood,
+  In meditative mood,
+  And in her narrow mind,
+  The kindly charm of dying comprehend:
+  So much the discipline of Love
+  Hath unto Death all hearts inclined!
+  Full often when this inward woe
+  Such pass has reached as mortal strength
+  No longer can endure,
+  The feeble body yields at length,
+  To its fierce blows, and timely, then,
+  Benignant Death her friendly power doth show:
+  Or else Love drives her hapless victims so,
+  Alike the simple clown,
+  And tender country lass,
+  That on themselves their desperate hands they lay,
+  And so are borne unto the shades below.
+  The world but laughs at their distress,
+  Whom heaven with peace and length of days doth bless.
+  To fervid, happy, restless souls
+  May fate the one or other still concede,
+  Sweet sovereigns, friendly to our race,
+  Whose power, throughout the universe,
+  Such miracles hath wrought,
+  As naught resembles, nor can aught,
+  Save that of Fate itself, exceed.
+  And thou, whom from my earliest years,
+  Still honored I invoke,
+  O lovely Death! the only friend
+  Of sufferers in this vale of tears,
+  If I have ever sought
+  Thy princely state to vindicate
+  From the affronts of the ungrateful crowd,
+  Do not delay, incline thy ear
+  Unto thy weary suppliant here!
+  These sad eyes close forever to the light,
+  And let me rest in peace serene,
+  O thou, of all the ages Queen!
+  Me surely wilt thou find, whate'er the hour,
+  When thou thy wings unfoldest to my prayer,
+  With front erect, the cruel power
+  Defying still, of Fate;
+  Nor will I praise, in fulsome mood,
+  The scourging hand, that with my blood,
+  The blood of innocence, is stained.
+  Nor bless it, as the human race
+  Is wont, through custom old and base:
+  Each empty hope, with which the world
+  Itself and children would beguile,
+  I'll cast aside, each comfort false and vile;
+  In thee alone my hope I'll place,
+  Thou welcome minister of grace!
+  In that sole thought supremely blest,
+  That day, when my unconscious head
+  May on thy virgin bosom rest.
+
+
+
+
+TO HIMSELF.
+
+
+  Nor wilt thou rest forever, weary heart.
+  The last illusion is destroyed,
+  That I eternal thought. Destroyed!
+  I feel all hope and all desire depart,
+  For life and its deceitful joys.
+  Forever rest! Enough! Thy throbbings cease!
+  Naught can requite thy miseries;
+  Nor is earth worthy of thy sighs.
+  Life is a bitter, weary load,
+  The world a slough. And now, repose!
+  Despair no more, but find in Death
+  The only boon Fate on our race bestows!
+  Still, Nature, art thou doomed to fall,
+  The victim scorned of that blind, brutal power
+  That rules and ruins all.
+
+
+
+
+ASPASIA.
+
+
+  At times thy image to my mind returns,
+  Aspasia. In the crowded streets it gleams
+  Upon me, for an instant, as I pass,
+  In other faces; or in lonely fields,
+  At noon-tide bright, beneath the silent stars,
+  With sudden and with startling vividness,
+  As if awakened by sweet harmony,
+  The splendid vision rises in my soul.
+  How worshipped once, ye gods, what a delight
+  To me, what torture, too! Nor do I e'er
+  The odor of the flowery fields inhale,
+  Or perfume of the gardens of the town,
+  That I recall thee not, as on that day,
+  When in thy sumptuous rooms, so redolent
+  Of all the fragrant flowers of the spring,
+  Arrayed in robe of violet hue, thy form
+  Angelic I beheld, as it reclined
+  On dainty cushions languidly, and by
+  An atmosphere voluptuous surrounded;
+  When thou, a skilful Syren, didst imprint
+  Upon thy children's round and rosy lips
+  Resounding, fervent kisses, stretching forth
+  Thy neck of snow, and with thy lovely hand,
+  The little, unsuspecting innocents
+  Didst to thy hidden, tempting bosom press.
+  The earth, the heavens transfigured seemed to me,
+  A ray divine to penetrate my soul.
+  Then in my side, not unprotected quite,
+  Deep driven by thy hand, the shaft I bore,
+  Lamenting sore; and not to be removed,
+  Till twice the sun his annual round had made.
+
+  A ray divine, O lady! to my thought
+  Thy beauty seemed. A like effect is oft
+  By beauty caused, and harmony, that seem
+  The mystery of Elysium to reveal.
+  The stricken mortal fondly worships, then,
+  His own ideal, creature of his mind,
+  Which of his heaven the greater part contains.
+  Alike in looks, in manners, and in speech,
+  The real and ideal seem to him,
+  In his confused and passion-guided soul.
+  But not the woman, but the dream it is,
+  That in his fond caresses, he adores.
+  At last his error finding, and the sad exchange,
+  He is enraged, and most unjustly, oft,
+  The woman chides. For rarely does the mind
+  Of woman to that high ideal rise;
+  And that which her own beauty oft inspires
+  In generous lovers, she imagines not,
+  Nor could she comprehend. Those narrow brows,
+  Cannot such great conceptions hold. The man,
+  Deceived, builds false hopes on those lustrous eyes,
+  And feelings deep, ineffable, nay, more
+  Than manly, vainly seeks in her, who is
+  By nature so inferior to man.
+  For as her limbs more soft and slender are,
+  So is her mind less capable and strong.
+
+  Nor hast thou ever known, Aspasia,
+  Or couldst thou comprehend the thoughts that once
+  Thou didst inspire in me. Thou knowest not
+  What boundless love, what sufferings intense,
+  What ravings wild, what savage impulses,
+  Thou didst arouse in me; nor will the time
+  E'er come when thou could'st understand them. So,
+  Musicians, too, are often ignorant
+  Of the effects they with the hand and voice
+  Produce on him that listens. Dead is _that_
+  Aspasia, that I so loved, aye, dead
+  Forever, who was once sole object of
+  My life; save as a phantom, ever dear,
+  That comes from time to time, and disappears.
+  Thou livest still, not only beautiful,
+  But in thy beauty still surpassing all;
+  But oh, the flame thou didst enkindle once,
+  Long since has been extinguished; _thee_, indeed,
+  I never loved, but that Divinity,
+  Once living, buried now within my heart.
+  Her, long time, I adored; and was so pleased
+  With her celestial beauty, that, although
+  I from the first thy nature knew full well,
+  And all thy artful and coquettish ways,
+  Yet _her_ fair eyes beholding still in _thine_,
+  I followed thee, delighted, while she lived;
+  Deceived? Ah, no! But by the pleasure led,
+  Of that sweet likeness, that allured me so,
+  A long and heavy servitude to bear.
+
+  Now boast; thou can'st! Say, that to thee alone
+  Of all thy sex, my haughty head I bowed,
+  To thee alone, of my unconquered heart
+  An offering made. Say, that thou wast the first--
+  And surely wast the last--that in my eye
+  A suppliant look beheld, and me before
+  Thee stand, timid and trembling (how I blush,
+  In saying it, with anger and with shame),
+  Of my own self deprived, thy every wish,
+  Thy every word submissively observing,
+  At every proud caprice becoming pale,
+  At every sign of favor brightening,
+  And changing color at each look of thine.
+  The charm is over, and, with it, the yoke
+  Lies broken, scattered on the ground; and I
+  Rejoice. 'Tis true my days are laden with
+  Ennui; yet after such long servitude,
+  And such infatuation, I am glad
+  My judgment, freedom to resume. For though
+  A life bereft of love's illusions sweet,
+  Is like a starless night, in winter's midst,
+  Yet some revenge, some comfort can I find
+  For my hard fate, that here upon the grass,
+  Outstretched in indolence I lie, and gaze
+  Upon the earth and sea and sky, and smile.
+
+
+
+
+ON AN OLD SEPULCHRAL BAS-RELIEF.
+
+WHERE IS SEEN A YOUNG MAIDEN, DEAD, IN THE ACT OF DEPARTING,
+TAKING LEAVE OF HER FAMILY.
+
+
+  Where goest thou? Who calls
+  Thee from my dear ones far away?
+  Most lovely maiden, say!
+  Alone, a wanderer, dost thou leave
+  Thy father's roof so soon?
+  Wilt thou unto its threshold e'er return?
+  Wilt thou make glad one day,
+  Those, who now round thee, weeping, mourn?
+
+  Fearless thine eye, and spirited thy act;
+  And yet thou, too, art sad.
+  If pleasant or unpleasant be the road,
+  If gay or gloomy be the new abode,
+  To which thou journeyest, indeed,
+  In that grave face, how difficult to read!
+  Ah, hard to me the problem still hath seemed;
+  Not hath the world, perhaps, yet understood,
+  If thou beloved, or hated by the gods,
+  If happy, or unhappy shouldst be deemed.
+
+  Death calls thee; in thy morn of life,
+  Its latest breath. Unto the nest
+  Thou leavest, thou wilt ne'er return; wilt ne'er
+  The faces of thy kindred more behold;
+  And under ground,
+  The place to which thou goest will be found;
+  And for all time will be thy sojourn there.
+  Happy, perhaps, thou art: but he must sigh
+  Who, thoughtful, contemplates thy destiny.
+
+  Ne'er to have seen the light, e'en at the time,
+  I think; but, born, e'en at the time,
+  When regal beauty all her charms displays,
+  Alike in form and face,
+  And at her feet the admiring world
+  Its distant homage pays;
+  When every hope is in its flower,
+  Long, long ere dreary winter flash
+  His baleful gleams against the joyous brow;
+  Like vapor gathered in the summer cloud,
+  That melting in the evening sky is seen
+  To disappear, as if one ne'er had been;
+  And to exchange the brilliant days to come,
+  For the dark silence of the tomb;
+  The intellect, indeed,
+  May call this, happiness; but still
+  It may the stoutest breasts with pity fill.
+
+  Thou mother, dreaded and deplored
+  From birth, by all the world that lives,
+  Nature, ungracious miracle,
+  That bringest forth and nourishest, to kill,
+  If death untimely be an evil thing,
+  Why on these innocent heads
+  Wilt thou that evil bring?
+  If good, why, why,
+  Beyond all other misery,
+  To him who goes, to him who must remain,
+  Hast thou such parting crowned with hopeless pain?
+
+  Wretched, where'er we look,
+  Whichever way we turn,
+  Thy suffering children are!
+  Thee it hath pleased, that youthful hope
+  Should ever be by life beguiled;
+  The current of our years with woes be filled,
+  And death against all ills the only shield:
+  And this inevitable seal,
+  And this immutable decree,
+  Hast thou assigned to human destiny,
+  Why, after such a painful race,
+  Should not the goal, at least,
+  Present to us a cheerful face?
+  Why that, which we in constant view,
+  Must, while we live, forever bear,
+  Sole comfort in our hour of need,
+  Thus dress in weeds of woe,
+  And gird with shadows so,
+  And make the friendly port to us appear
+  More frightful than the tempest drear?
+
+  If death, indeed, be a calamity,
+  Which thou intendest for us all,
+  Whom thou, against our knowledge and our will,
+  Hast forced to draw this mortal breath,
+  Then, surely, he who dies,
+  A lot more enviable hath
+  Then he who feels his loved one's death.
+  But, if the truth it be,
+  As I most firmly think,
+  That life is the calamity,
+  And death the boon, alas! who ever _could_,
+  What yet he _should_,
+  Desire the dying day of those so dear,
+  That he may linger here,
+  Of his best self deprived,
+  May see across his threshold borne,
+  The form beloved of her,
+  With whom so many years he lived,
+  And say to her farewell,
+  Without the hope of meeting here again;
+  And then alone on earth to dwell,
+  And, looking round, the hours and places all,
+  Of lost companionship recall?
+
+  Ah, Nature! how, how _couldst_ thou have the heart,
+  From the friend's arms the friend to tear,
+  The brother from the brother part,
+  The father from the child,
+  The lover from his love,
+  And, killing one, the other keep alive?
+  What dire necessity
+  Compels such misery
+  That lover should the loved one e'er survive?
+  But Nature in her cruel dealings still,
+  Pays little heed unto our good or ill.
+
+
+
+
+ON THE PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN,
+CARVED ON HER MONUMENT.
+
+
+  Such _wast_ thou: now in earth below,
+  Dust and a skeleton thou art.
+  Above thy bones and clay,
+  Here vainly placed by loving hands,
+  Sole guardian of memory and woe,
+  The image of departed beauty stands.
+  Mute, motionless, it seems with pensive gaze
+  To watch the flight of the departing days.
+  That gentle look, that, wheresoe'er it fell,
+  As now it seems to fall,
+  Held fast the gazer with its magic spell;
+  That lip, from which as from some copious urn,
+  Redundant pleasure seems to overflow;
+  That neck, on which love once so fondly hung;
+  That loving hand, whose tender pressure still
+  The hand it clasped, with trembling joy would thrill;
+  That bosom, whose transparent loveliness
+  The color from the gazer's cheek would steal;
+  All these _have been_; and now remains alone
+  A wretched heap of bones and clay,
+  Concealed from sight by this benignant stone.
+
+  To this hath Fate reduced
+  The form, that, when with life it beamed,
+  To us heaven's liveliest image seemed.
+  O Nature's endless mystery!
+  To-day, of grand and lofty thoughts the source,
+  And feelings not to be described,
+  Beauty rules all, and seems,
+  Like some mysterious splendor from on high
+  Forth-darted to illuminate
+  This dreary wilderness;
+  Of superhuman fate,
+  Of fortunate realms, and golden worlds,
+  A token, and a hope secure
+  To give our mortal state;
+  To-morrow, for some trivial cause,
+  Loathsome to sight, abominable, base
+  Becomes, what but a little time before
+  Wore such an angel face;
+  And from our minds, in the same breath,
+  The grand conception it inspired,
+  Swift vanishes and leaves no trace.
+  What infinite desires,
+  What visions grand and high,
+  In our exalted thought,
+  With magic power creates, true harmony!
+  O'er a delicious and mysterious sea,
+  The exulting spirit glides,
+  As some bold swimmer sports in Ocean's tides:
+  But oh, the mischief that is wrought,
+  If but one accent out of tune
+  Assaults the ear! Alas, how soon
+  Our paradise is turned to naught!
+
+  O human nature, why is this?
+  If frail and vile throughout,
+  If shadow, dust thou art, say, why
+  Hast thou such fancies, aspirations high?
+  And yet, if framed for nobler ends,
+  Alas, why are we doomed
+  To see our highest motives, truest thoughts,
+  By such base causes kindled, and consumed?
+
+
+
+
+PALINODIA.
+
+TO THE MARQUIS GINO CAPPONI.
+
+
+  I was mistaken, my dear Gino. Long
+  And greatly have I erred. I fancied life
+  A vain and wretched thing, and this, our age,
+  Now passing, vainest, silliest of all.
+  Intolerable seemed, and _was_, such talk
+  Unto the happy race of mortals, if,
+  Indeed, man ought or could be mortal called.
+  'Twixt anger and surprise, the lofty creatures laughed
+  Forth from the fragrant Eden where they dwell;
+  Neglected, or unfortunate, they called me;
+  Of joy incapable, or ignorant,
+  To think my lot the common lot of all,
+  Mankind, the partner in my misery.
+  At length, amid the odor of cigars,
+  The crackling sound of dainty pastry, and
+  The orders loud for ices and for drinks,
+  'Midst clinking glasses, and 'midst brandished spoons,
+  The daily light of the gazettes flashed full
+  On my dim eyes. I saw and recognized
+  The public joy, and the felicity
+  Of human destiny. The lofty state
+  I saw, and value of all human things;
+  Our mortal pathway strewed with flowers; I saw
+  How naught displeasing here below endures.
+  Nor less I saw the studies and the works
+  Stupendous, wisdom, virtue, knowledge deep
+  Of this our age. From far Morocco to
+  Cathay, and from the Poles unto the Nile,
+  From Boston unto Goa, on the track
+  Of flying Fortune, emulously panting,
+  The empires, kingdoms, dukedoms of the earth
+  I saw, now clinging to her waving locks,
+  Now to the end of her encircling boa.
+  Beholding this, and o'er the ample sheets
+  Profoundly meditating, I became
+  Of my sad blunder, and myself, ashamed.
+
+  The age of gold the spindles of the Fates,
+  O Gino, are evolving. Every sheet,
+  In each variety of speech and type,
+  The splendid promise to the world proclaims,
+  From every quarter. Universal love,
+  And iron roads, and commerce manifold,
+  Steam, types, and cholera, remotest lands,
+  Most distant nations will together bind;
+  Nor need we wonder if the pine or oak
+  Yield milk and honey, or together dance
+  Unto the music of the waltz. So much
+  The force already hath increased, both of
+  Alembics, and retorts, and of machines,
+  That vie with heaven in working miracles,
+  And will increase, in times that are to come:
+  For, evermore, from better unto best,
+  Without a pause, as in the past, the race
+  Of Shem, and Ham, and Japhet will progress.
+
+  And yet, on acorns men will never feed,
+  Unless compelled by hunger; never will
+  Hard iron lay aside. Full oft, indeed,
+  They gold and silver will despise, bills of
+  Exchange preferring. Often, too, the race
+  Its generous hands with brothers' blood will stain,
+  With fields of carnage filling Europe, and
+  The other shore of the Atlantic sea,
+  The new world, that the old still nourishes,
+  As often as it sends its rival bands
+  Of armed adventurers, in eager quest
+  Of pepper, cinnamon, or other spice,
+  Or sugar-cane, aught that ministers
+  Unto the universal thirst for gold.
+  True worth and virtue, modesty and faith,
+  And love of justice, in whatever land,
+  From public business will be still estranged,
+  Or utterly humiliated and
+  O'erthrown; condemned by Nature still,
+  To sink unto the bottom. Insolence
+  And fraud, with mediocrity combined,
+  Will to the surface ever rise, and reign.
+  Authority and strength, howe'er diffused,
+  However concentrated, will be still
+  Abused, beneath whatever name concealed,
+  By him who wields them; this the law by Fate
+  And nature written first, in adamant:
+  Nor can a Volta with his lightnings, nor
+  A Davy cancel it, nor England with
+  Her vast machinery, nor this our age
+  With all its floods of Leading Articles.
+  The good man ever will be sad, the wretch
+  Will keep perpetual holiday; against
+  All lofty souls both worlds will still be armed
+  Conspirators; true honor be assailed
+  By calumny, and hate, and envy; still
+  The weak will be the victim of the strong;
+  The hungry man upon the rich will fawn,
+  Beneath whatever form of government,
+  Alike at the Equator and the Poles;
+  So will it be, while man on earth abides,
+  And while the sun still lights him on his way.
+
+  These signs and tokens of the ages past
+  Must of necessity their impress leave
+  Upon our brightly dawning age of gold:
+  Because society from Nature still
+  Receives a thousand principles and aims,
+  Diverse, discordant; which to reconcile,
+  No wit or power of man hath yet availed,
+  Since first our race, illustrious, was born;
+  Nor _will_ avail, or treaty or gazette,
+  In any age, however wise or strong.
+  But in things more important, how complete,
+  Ne'er seen, till now, will be our happiness!
+  More soft, from day to day, our garments will
+  Become, of woollen or of silk. Their rough
+  Attire the husbandman and smith will cast
+  Aside, will swathe in cotton their rough hides,
+  And with the skins of beavers warm their backs.
+  More serviceable, more attractive, too,
+  Will be our carpets and our counterpanes,
+  Our curtains, sofas, tables, and our chairs;
+  Our beds, and their attendant furniture,
+  Will a new grace unto our chambers lend;
+  And dainty forms of kettles and of pans,
+  On our dark kitchens will their lustre shed.
+  From Paris unto Calais, and from there
+  To London, and from there to Liverpool,
+  More rapid than imagination can
+  Conceive, will be the journey, nay the flight;
+  While underneath the ample bed of Thames,
+  A highway will be made, immortal work,
+  That _should_ have been completed, years ago.
+  Far better lighted, and perhaps as safe,
+  At night, as now they are, will be the lanes
+  And unfrequented streets of Capitals;
+  Perhaps, the main streets of the smaller towns.
+  Such privileges, such a happy lot,
+  Kind heaven reserves unto the coming race.
+
+  How fortunate are they, whom, as I write,
+  Naked and whimpering, in her arms receives
+  The midwife! They those longed-for days may hope
+  To see, when, after careful studies we
+  Shall know, and every nursling shall imbibe
+  That knowledge with the milk of the dear nurse,
+  How many hundred-weight of salt, and how
+  Much flesh, how many bushels, too, of flour,
+  His native town in every month consumes;
+  How many births and deaths in every year
+  The parish priest inscribes: when by the aid
+  Of mighty steam, that, every second, prints
+  Its millions, hill and dale, and ocean's vast
+  Expanse, e'en as we see a flock of cranes
+  Aerial, that suddenly the day obscure, will with Gazettes be overrun;
+  Gazettes, of the great Universe the life
+  And soul, sole fount of wisdom and of wit,
+  To this, and unto every coming age!
+
+  E'en as a child, who carefully constructs,
+  Of little sticks and leaves, an edifice,
+  In form of temple, palace, or of tower;
+  And, soon as he beholds the work complete,
+  The impulse feels, the structure to destroy,
+  Because the self-same sticks and leaves he needs,
+  To carry out some other enterprise;
+  So Nature every work of hers, however
+  It may delight us with its excellence,
+  No sooner sees unto perfection brought,
+  Than she proceeds to pull it all to pieces,
+  For other structures using still the parts.
+  And vainly seeks the human race, itself
+  Or others from the cruel sport to save,
+  The cause of which is hidden from its sight
+  Forever, though a thousand means it tries,
+  With skilful hand devising remedies:
+  For cruel Nature, child invincible,
+  Our efforts laughs to scorn, and still its own
+  Caprices carries out, without a pause,
+  Destroying and creating, for its sport.
+  And hence, a various, endless family
+  Of ills incurable and sufferings
+  Oppresses the frail mortal, doomed to death
+  Irreparably; hence a hostile force,
+  Destructive, smites him from within, without,
+  On every side, perpetual, e'en from
+  The day of birth, and wearies and exhausts,
+  Itself untiring, till he drops at last,
+  By the inhuman mother crushed, and killed.
+  Those crowning miseries, O gentle friend,
+  Of this our mortal life, old age and death,
+  E'en then commencing, when the infant lip
+  The tender breast doth press, that life instils,
+  This happy nineteenth century, I think,
+  Can no more help, than could the ninth, or tenth,
+  Nor will the coming ages, more than this.
+  Indeed, if we may be allowed to call
+  The truth by its right name, no other than
+  Supremely wretched must each mortal be,
+  In every age, and under every form
+  Of government, and walk and mode of life;
+  By nature hopelessly incurable,
+  Because a universal law hath so
+  Decreed, which heaven and earth alike obey.
+  And yet the lofty spirits of our age
+  A new discovery have made, almost
+  Divine; for, though they cannot make
+  A single person happy on the earth,
+  The man forgetting, they have gone in quest
+  Of universal happiness, and this,
+  Forsooth, have found so easily, that out
+  Of many wretched individuals,
+  They can a happy, joyful people make.
+  And at this miracle, not yet explained
+  By quarterly reviews, or pamphlets, or
+  Gazettes, the common herd in wonder smile.
+
+  O minds, O wisdom, insight marvellous
+  Of this our passing age! And what profound
+  Philosophy, what lessons deep, O Gino,
+  In matters more sublime and recondite,
+  This century of thine and mine will teach
+  To those that follow! With what constancy,
+  What yesterday it scorned, upon its knees
+  To-day it worships, and will overthrow
+  To-morrow, merely to pick up again
+  The fragments, to the idol thus restored,
+  To offer incense on the following day!
+  How estimable, how inspiring, too,
+  This unanimity of thought, not of
+  The age alone, but of each passing year!
+  How carefully should we, when we our thought
+  With this compare, however different
+  From that of next year it may be, at least
+  Appearance of diversity avoid!
+  What giant strides, compared with those of old,
+  Our century in wisdom's school has made!
+
+  One of thy friends, O worthy Gino, once,
+  A master poet, nay, of every Art,
+  And Science, every human faculty,
+  For past, and present, and for future times,
+  A learned expositor, remarked to me:
+  "Of thy own feelings, care to speak no more!
+  Of them, this manly age makes no account,
+  In economic problems quite absorbed,
+  And with an eye for politics alone,
+  Of what avail, thy own heart to explore?
+  Seek not within thyself material
+  For song; but sing the needs of this our age,
+  And consummation of its ripening hope!"
+  O memorable words! Whereat I laughed
+  Like chanticleer, the name of _hope_ to hear
+  Thus strike upon my ear profane, as if
+  A jest it were, or prattle of a child
+  Just weaned. But now a different course I take,
+  Convinced by many shining proofs, that he
+  Must not resist or contradict the age,
+  Who seeketh praise or pudding at its hands,
+  But faithfully and servilely obey;
+  And so will find a short and easy road
+  Unto the stars. And I who long to reach
+  The stars will not, howe'er, select the needs
+  Of this our age for burden of my song;
+  For these, increasing constantly, are still
+  By merchants and by work-shops amply met;
+  But I will sing of hope, of hope whereof
+  The gods now grant a pledge so palpable.
+  The first-fruits of our new felicity
+  Behold, in the enormous growth of hair,
+  Upon the lip, upon the cheek, of youth!
+
+  O hail, thou salutary sign, first beam
+  Of light of this our wondrous, rising age!
+  See, how before thee heaven and earth rejoice,
+  How sparkle all the damsels' eyes with joy,
+  How through all banquets and all festivals
+  The fame of the young bearded heroes flies!
+  Grow for your country's sake, ye manly youth!
+  Beneath the shadow of your fleecy locks,
+  Will Italy increase, and Europe from
+  The mouths of Tagus to the Hellespont,
+  And all the world will taste the sweets of peace.
+  And thou, O tender child, for whom these days
+  Of gold are yet in store, begin to greet
+  Thy bearded father with a smile, nor fear
+  The harmless blackness of his loving face.
+  Laugh, darling child; for thee are kept the fruits
+  Of so much dazzling eloquence. Thou shalt
+  Behold joy reign in cities and in towns,
+  Old age and youth alike contented dwell,
+  And undulating beards of two spans long!
+
+
+
+
+THE SETTING OF THE MOON.
+
+
+  As, in the lonely night,
+  Above the silvered fields and streams
+  Where zephyr gently blows,
+  And myriad objects vague,
+  Illusions, that deceive,
+  Their distant shadows weave
+  Amid the silent rills,
+  The trees, the hedges, villages, and hills;
+  Arrived at heaven's boundary,
+  Behind the Apennine or Alp,
+  Or into the deep bosom of the sea,
+  The moon descends, the world grows dim;
+  The shadows disappear, darkness profound
+  Falls on each hill and vale around,
+  And night is desolate,
+  And singing, with his plaintive lay,
+  The parting gleam of friendly light
+  The traveller greets, whose radiance bright,
+  Till now, hath guided him upon his way;
+
+  So vanishes, so desolate
+  Youth leaves our mortal state.
+  The shadows disappear,
+  And the illusions dear;
+  And in the distance fading all, are seen
+  The hopes on which our suffering natures lean.
+  Abandoned and forlorn
+  Our lives remain;
+  And the bewildered traveller, in vain,
+  As he its course surveys,
+  To find the end, or object tries,
+  Of the long path that still before him lies.
+  A hopeless darkness o'er him steals;
+  Himself an alien on the earth he feels.
+
+  Too happy, and too gay
+  Would our hard lot appear
+  To those who placed us here, if youth,
+  Whose every joy is born of pain,
+  Through all our days were suffered to remain;
+  Too merciful the law,
+  That sentences each animal to death,
+  Did not the road that leads to it,
+  E'er half-completed, unto us appear
+  Than death itself more sad and drear.
+  Thou blest invention of the Gods,
+  And worthy of their intellects divine,
+  Old age, the last of all our ills,
+  When our desires still linger on,
+  Though every ray of hope is gone;
+  When pleasure's fountains all are dried,
+  Our pains increasing, every joy denied!
+
+  Ye hills, and vales, and fields,
+  Though in the west hath set the radiant orb
+  That shed its lustre on the veil of night,
+  Will not long time remain bereft,
+  In hopeless darkness left?
+  Ye soon will see the eastern sky
+  Grow white again, the dawn arise,
+  Precursor of the sun,
+  Who with the splendor of his rays
+  Will all the scene irradiate,
+  And with his floods of light
+  The fields of heaven and earth will inundate.
+  But mortal life,
+  When lovely youth has gone,
+  Is colored with no other light,
+  And knows no other dawn.
+  The rest is hopeless wretchedness and gloom;
+  The journey's end, the dark and silent tomb.
+
+
+
+
+THE GINESTRA,
+
+OR THE FLOWER OF THE WILDERNESS.
+
+
+  Here, on the arid ridge
+  Of dead Vesuvius,
+  Exterminator terrible,
+  That by no other tree or flower is cheered,
+  Thou scatterest thy lonely leaves around,
+  O fragrant flower,
+  With desert wastes content. Thy graceful stems
+  I in the solitary paths have found,
+  The city that surround,
+  That once was mistress of the world;
+  And of her fallen power,
+  They seemed with silent eloquence to speak
+  Unto the thoughtful wanderer.
+  And now again I see thee on this soil,
+  Of wretched, world-abandoned spots the friend,
+  Of ruined fortunes the companion, still.
+  These fields with barren ashes strown,
+  And lava, hardened into stone,
+  Beneath the pilgrim's feet, that hollow sound,
+  Where by their nests the serpents coiled,
+  Lie basking in the sun,
+  And where the conies timidly
+  To their familiar burrows run,
+  Were cheerful villages and towns,
+  With waving fields of golden grain,
+  And musical with lowing herds;
+  Were gardens, and were palaces,
+  That to the leisure of the rich
+  A grateful shelter gave;
+  Were famous cities, which the mountain fierce,
+  Forth-darting torrents from his mouth of flame,
+  Destroyed, with their inhabitants.
+  Now all around, one ruin lies,
+  Where thou dost dwell, O gentle flower,
+  And, as in pity of another's woe,
+  A perfume sweet thou dost exhale,
+  To heaven an offering,
+  And consolation to the desert bring.
+  Here let him come, who hath been used
+  To chant the praises of our mortal state,
+  And see the care,
+  That loving Nature of her children takes!
+  Here may he justly estimate
+  The power of mortals, whom
+  The cruel nurse, when least they fear,
+  With motion light can in a moment crush
+  In part, and afterwards, when in the mood,
+  With motion not so light, can suddenly,
+  And utterly annihilate.
+  Here, on these blighted coasts,
+  May he distinctly trace
+  "The princely progress of the human race!"
+
+  Here look, and in a mirror see thyself,
+  O proud and foolish age!
+  That turn'st thy back upon the path,
+  That thought revived
+  So clearly indicates to all,
+  And this, thy movement retrograde,
+  Dost _Progress_ call.
+  Thy foolish prattle all the minds,
+  Whose cruel fate thee for a father gave,
+  Besmear with flattery,
+  Although, among themselves, at times,
+  They laugh at thee.
+  But I will not to such low arts descend,
+  Though envy it would be for me,
+  The rest to imitate,
+  And, raving, wilfully,
+  To make my song more pleasing to thy ears:
+  But I will sooner far reveal,
+  As clearly as I can, the deep disdain
+  That I for thee within my bosom feel;
+  Although I know, oblivion
+  Awaits the man who holds his age in scorn:
+  But this misfortune, which I share with thee,
+  My laughter only moves.
+  Thou dream'st of liberty,
+  And yet thou wouldst anew that thought enslave,
+  By which alone we are redeemed, in part,
+  From barbarism; by which alone
+  True progress is obtained,
+  And states are guided to a nobler end.
+  And so the truth of our hard lot,
+  And of the humble place
+  Which Nature gave us, pleased thee not;
+  And like a coward, thou hast turned thy back
+  Upon the light, which made it evident;
+  Reviling him who does that light pursue,
+  And praising him alone
+  Who, in his folly, or from motives base,
+  Above the stars exalts the human race.
+
+  A man of poor estate, and weak of limb,
+  But of a generous, truthful soul,
+  Nor calls, nor deems himself
+  A Croesus, or a Hercules,
+  Nor makes himself ridiculous
+  Before the world with vain pretence
+  Of vigor or of opulence;
+  But his infirmities and needs
+  He lets appear, and without shame,
+  And speaking frankly, calls each thing
+  By its right name.
+  I deem not _him_ magnanimous,
+  But simply, a great fool,
+  Who, born to perish, reared in suffering,
+  Proclaims his lot a happy one,
+  And with offensive pride
+  His pages fills, exalted destinies
+  And joys, unknown in heaven, much less
+  On earth, absurdly promising to those
+  Who by a wave of angry sea,
+  Or breath of tainted air,
+  Or shaking of the earth beneath,
+  Are ruined, crushed so utterly,
+  As scarce to be recalled by memory.
+  But truly noble, wise is _he_,
+  Who bids his brethren boldly look
+  Upon our common misery;
+  Who frankly tells the naked truth,
+  Acknowledging our frail and wretched state,
+  And all the ills decreed to us by Fate;
+  Who shows himself in suffering brave and strong,
+  Nor adds unto his miseries
+  Fraternal jealousies and strifes,
+  The hardest things to bear of all,
+  Reproaching man with his own grief,
+  But the true culprit
+  Who, in our birth, a mother is,
+  A fierce step-mother in her will.
+  _Her_ he proclaims the enemy,
+  And thinking all the human race
+  Against her armed, as is the case,
+  E'en from the first, united and arrayed,
+  All men esteems confederates,
+  And with true love embraces all,
+  Prompt and efficient aid bestowing, and
+  Expecting it, in all the pains
+  And perils of the common war.
+  And to resent with arms all injuries,
+  Or snares and pit-falls for a neighbor lay,
+  Absurd he deems, as it would be, upon
+  The field, surrounded by the enemy,
+  The foe forgetting, bitter war
+  With one's own friends to wage,
+  And in the hottest of the fight,
+  With cruel and misguided sword,
+  One's fellow soldiers put to flight.
+  When truths like these are rendered clear,
+  As once they were, unto the multitude,
+  And when that fear, which from the first,
+  All mortals in a social band
+  Against inhuman Nature joined
+  Anew shall guided be, in part,
+  By knowledge true, then social intercourse,
+  And faith, and hope, and charity
+  Will a far different foundation have
+  From that which silly fables give,
+  By which supported, public truth and good
+  Must still proceed with an unstable foot,
+  As all things that in error have their root.
+  Oft, on these hills, so desolate,
+  Which by the hardened flood,
+  That seems in waves to rise,
+  Are clad in mourning, do I sit at night,
+  And o'er the dreary plain behold
+  The stars above in purest azure shine,
+  And in the ocean mirrored from afar,
+  And all the world in brilliant sparks arrayed,
+  Revolving through the vault serene.
+  And when my eyes I fasten on those lights,
+  Which seem to them a point,
+  And yet are so immense,
+  That earth and sea, with them compared,
+  Are but a point indeed;
+  To whom, not only man,
+  But this our globe, where man is nothing, is
+  Unknown; and when I farther gaze upon
+  Those clustered stars, at distance infinite,
+  That seem to us like mist, to whom
+  Not only man and earth, but all our stars
+  At once, so vast in numbers and in bulk,
+  The golden sun himself included, are
+  Unknown, or else appear, as they to earth,
+  A point of nebulous light, what, then,
+  Dost _thou_ unto my thought appear,
+  O race of men?
+  Remembering thy wretched state below,
+  Of which the soil I tread, the token bears;
+  And, on the other hand,
+  That thou thyself hast deemed
+  The Lord and end of all the Universe;
+  How oft thou hast been pleased
+  The idle tale to tell,
+  That to this little grain of sand, obscure,
+  The name of earth that bears,
+  The Authors of that Universe
+  Have, at thy call, descended oft,
+  And pleasant converse with thy children had;
+  And how, these foolish dreams reviving, e'en
+  This age its insults heaps upon the wise,
+  Although it seems all others to excel
+  In learning, and in arts polite;
+  What can I think of thee
+  Thou wretched race of men?
+  What thoughts discordant then my heart assail,
+  In doubt, if scorn or pity should prevail!
+
+  As a small apple, falling from a tree
+  In autumn, by the force
+  Of its own ripeness, to the ground,
+  The pleasant homes of a community
+  Of ants, in the soft clod
+  With careful labor built,
+  And all their works, and all the wealth,
+  Which the industrious citizens
+  Had in the summer providently stored,
+  Lays waste, destroys, and in an instant hides;
+  So, falling from on high,
+  To heaven forth-darted from
+  The mountain's groaning womb,
+  A dark destructive mass
+  Of ashes, pumice, and of stones,
+  With boiling streams of lava mixed,
+  Or, down the mountain's side
+  Descending, furious, o'er the grass,
+  A fearful flood
+  Of melted metals, mixed with burning sand,
+  Laid waste, destroyed, and in short time concealed
+  The cities on yon shore, washed by the sea,
+  Where now the goats
+  On this side browse, and cities new
+  Upon the other stand, whose foot-stools are
+  The buried ones, whose prostrate walls
+  The lofty mountain tramples under foot.
+  Nature no more esteems or cares for man,
+  Than for the ant; and if the race
+  Is not so oft destroyed,
+  The reason we may plainly see;
+  Because the ants more fruitful are than we.
+  Full eighteen hundred years have passed,
+  Since, by the force of fire laid waste,
+  These thriving cities disappeared;
+  And now, the husbandman,
+  His vineyards tending, that the arid clod,
+  With ashes clogged, with difficulty feeds,
+  Still raises a suspicious eye
+  Unto that fatal crest,
+  That, with a fierceness not to be controlled,
+  Still stands tremendous, threatens still
+  Destruction to himself, his children, and
+  Their little property.
+  And oft upon the roof
+  Of his small cottage, the poor man
+  All night lies sleepless, often springing up,
+  The course to watch of the dread stream of fire
+  That from the inexhausted womb doth pour
+  Along the sandy ridge,
+  Its lurid light reflected in the bay,
+  From Mergellina unto Capri's shore.
+  And if he sees it drawing near,
+  Or in his well
+  He hears the boiling water gurgle, wakes
+  His sons, in haste his wife awakes,
+  And, with such things as they can snatch,
+  Escaping, sees from far
+  His little nest, and the small field,
+  His sole resource against sharp hunger's pangs,
+  A prey unto the burning flood,
+  That crackling comes, and with its hardening crust,
+  Inexorable, covers all.
+  Unto the light of day returns,
+  After its long oblivion,
+  Pompeii, dead, an unearthed skeleton,
+  Which avarice or piety
+  Hath from its grave unto the air restored;
+  And from its forum desolate,
+  And through the formal rows
+  Of mutilated colonnades,
+  The stranger looks upon the distant, severed peaks,
+  And on the smoking crest,
+  That threatens still the ruins scattered round.
+  And in the horror of the secret night,
+  Along the empty theatres,
+  The broken temples, shattered houses, where
+  The bat her young conceals,
+  Like flitting torch, that smoking sheds
+  A gloom through the deserted halls
+  Of palaces, the baleful lava glides,
+  That through the shadows, distant, glares,
+  And tinges every object round.
+  Thus, paying unto man no heed,
+  Or to the ages that he calls antique,
+  Or to the generations as they pass,
+  Nature forever young remains,
+  Or at a pace so slow proceeds,
+  She stationary seems.
+  Empires, meanwhile, decline and fall,
+  And nations pass away, and languages:
+  She sees it not, or _will_ not see;
+  And yet man boasts of immortality!
+
+  And thou, submissive flower,
+  That with thy fragrant foliage dost adorn
+  These desolated plains,
+  Thou, too, must fall before the cruel power
+  Of subterranean fire,
+  Which, to its well-known haunts returning, will
+  Its fatal border spread
+  O'er thy soft leaves and branches fine.
+  And thou wilt bow thy gentle head,
+  Without a struggle, yielding to thy fate:
+  But not with vain and abject cowardice,
+  Wilt thy destroyer supplicate;
+  Nor wilt, erect with senseless haughtiness,
+  Look up unto the stars,
+  Or o'er the wilderness,
+  Where, not from choice, but Fortune's will,
+  Thy birthplace thou, and home didst find;
+  But wiser, far, than man,
+  And far less weak;
+  For thou didst ne'er, from Fate, or power of thine,
+  Immortal life for thy frail children seek.
+
+
+
+
+IMITATION.
+
+
+  Wandering from the parent bough,
+  Little, trembling leaf,
+  Whither goest thou?
+  "From the beech, where I was born,
+  By the north wind was I torn.
+  Him I follow in his flight,
+  Over mountain, over vale,
+  From the forest to the plain,
+  Up the hill, and down again.
+  With him ever on the way:
+  More than that, I cannot say.
+  Where I go, must all things go,
+  Gentle, simple, high and low:
+  Leaves of laurel, leaves of rose;
+  Whither, heaven only knows!"
+
+
+
+
+SCHERZO.
+
+
+  When, as a boy, I went
+  To study in the Muses' school,
+  One of them came to me, and took
+  Me by the hand, and all that day,
+  She through the work-shop led me graciously,
+  The mysteries of the craft to see.
+  She guided me
+  Through every part,
+  And showed me all
+  The instruments of art,
+  And did their uses all rehearse,
+  In works alike of prose and verse.
+  I looked, and paused awhile,
+  Then asked: "O Muse, where is the file?"
+  "The file is out of order, friend, and we
+  Now do without it," answered she.
+  "But, to repair it, then, have you no care?"
+  "We _should_, indeed, but have no time to spare."
+
+
+
+
+FRAGMENTS.
+
+
+I.
+
+  I round the threshold wandering here,
+  Vainly the tempest and the rain invoke,
+  That they may keep my lady prisoner.
+
+  And yet the wind was howling in the woods,
+  The roving thunder bellowing in the clouds,
+  Before the dawn had risen in the sky.
+
+  O ye dear clouds! O heaven! O earth! O trees!
+  My lady goes! Have mercy, if on earth
+  Unhappy lovers ever mercy find!
+
+  Awake, ye whirlwinds! storm-charged clouds, awake,
+  O'erwhelm me with your floods, until the sun
+  To other lands brings back the light of day!
+
+  Heaven opens; the wind falls; the grass, the leaves
+  Are motionless, around; the dazzling sun
+  In my tear-laden eyes remorseless shines.
+
+
+II.
+
+  The light of day was fading in the west,
+  The smoke no more from village chimneys curled,
+  Nor voice of man, nor bark of dog was heard;
+
+  When she, obedient to Love's rendezvous,
+  Had reached the middle of a plain, than which
+  No other more bewitching could be found.
+
+  The moon on every side her lustre shed,
+  And all in robes of silver light arrayed
+  The trees with which the place was garlanded.
+
+  The rustling boughs were murmuring to the wind,
+  And, blending with the plaintive nightingale,
+  A rivulet poured forth its sweet lament.
+
+  The sea shone in the distance, and the fields
+  And groves; and slowly rising, one by one,
+  The summits of the mountains were revealed.
+
+  In quiet shade the sombre valley lay,
+  While all the little hills around were clothed
+  With the soft lustre of the dewy moon.
+
+  The maiden kept the silent, lonely path,
+  And gently passing o'er her face, she felt
+  The motion of the perfume-laden breeze.
+
+  If she were happy, it were vain to ask;
+  The scene delighted her, and the delight
+  Her heart was promising, was greater still.
+
+  How swift your flight, O lovely hours serene!
+  No other pleasure here below endures,
+  Or lingers with us long, save hope alone.
+
+  The night began to change, and dark became
+  The face of heaven, that was so beautiful,
+  And all her pleasure now was turned to fear.
+
+  An angry cloud, precursor of the storm,
+  Behind the mountains rose, and still increased,
+  Till moon or star no longer could be seen.
+
+  She saw it spreading upon every side,
+  And by degrees ascending through the air,
+  And now with its black mantle covering all.
+
+  The scanty light more faint and faint became;
+  The wind, meanwhile, was rising in the grove,
+  That on the farther side the spot enclosed;
+
+  And, every moment, was more boisterous;
+  Till every bird, awaking in its fright,
+  Amidst the trembling leaves was fluttering.
+
+  The cloud, increasing still, unto the coast
+  Descended, so that one extremity
+  The mountains touched, the other touched the sea.
+
+  And now from out its black and hollow womb,
+  The pattering rain-drops, falling fast, were heard,
+  The sound increasing as the cloud drew near.
+
+  And round her now the glancing lightning flashed
+  In fearful mood, and made her shut her eyes;
+  The ground was black, the air a mass of flame.
+
+  Her trembling knees could scarce her weight sustain;
+  The thunder roared with a continuous sound,
+  Like torrent, plunging headlong from the cliff.
+
+  At times she paused, the dismal scene to view,
+  In blank dismay; then on she ran again,
+  Her hair and clothes all streaming in the wind.
+
+  The cruel wind beat hard against her breast,
+  And rushing fiercely, with its angry breath,
+  The cold drops dashed, remorseless, in her face.
+
+  The thunder, like a beast, assaulted her,
+  With terrible, unintermitting roar;
+  And more and more the rain and tempest raged.
+
+  And from all sides in wild confusion flew
+  The dust and leaves, the branches and the stones,
+  With hideous tumult, inconceivable.
+
+  Her weary, blinded eyes now covering,
+  And folding close her clothes against her breast,
+  She through the storm her fearful path pursued.
+
+  But now the lightning glared so in her face,
+  That, overcome by fright at last, she went
+  No farther, and her heart within her sank;
+
+  And back she turned. And, even as she turned,
+  The lightning ceased to flash, the air was dark,
+  The thunder's voice was hushed, the wind stood still,
+  And all was silent round, and she,--at rest!
+
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Poems of Giacomo Leopardi, by Giacomo Leopardi
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF GIACOMO LEOPARDI ***
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