diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/19315.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/19315.txt | 5049 |
1 files changed, 5049 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/old/19315.txt b/old/19315.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d575708 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/19315.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5049 @@ +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 *** + +***** This file should be named 19315.txt or 19315.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/3/1/19315/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Daniel Emerson +Griffith and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |