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diff --git a/old/53020-8.txt b/old/53020-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 78133e9..0000000 --- a/old/53020-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4646 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poems of Leopardi, by Giacomo Leopardi - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Poems of Leopardi - -Author: Giacomo Leopardi - -Translator: Francis Henry Cliffe - -Release Date: September 9, 2016 [EBook #53020] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF LEOPARDI *** - - - - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at Free Literature (online soon -in an extended version, also linking to free sources for -education worldwide ... MOOC's, educational materials,...) -Images generously made available by the Hathi Trust. - - - - - -POEMS OF LEOPARDI - -_Translated from the Italian_ - -BY - -FRANCIS HENRY CLIFFE. - -REMINGTON AND CO., LIMITED, - -LONDON AND SYDNEY. - -MDCCCXCIII. - - - - -LIFE OF LEOPARDI. - - -Giacomo Leopardi, the greatest Italian poet of the Nineteenth -Century, was, born at Recanati, a town of the March of Ancona, on the -twenty-ninth of June, 1798; the eldest son of Count Monaldo Leopardi, -and Adelaide, his wife, daughter of the Marquis Antici. He had four -brothers and one sister--Paolina. His father possessed a splendid -library, and was a man of learning and literary tastes, appearing -himself as an author in prose and verse. - -Recanati is situated on an eminence in the Appenines, not far from -Ancona and the celebrated shrine of Loreto; and as a biographer of our -poet says: "Its natural beauties are superb, and the genius of its -great son has made them incomparable." Up to the age of twenty-four -Leopardi did not leave his native place. The constant sight of -so lovely a landscape, bordered in the distance by the Adriatic, -contributed in no slight measure to give him that exquisite taste and -sympathy for nature, for which he is unique among the poets of his -country. - -He, very early, gave proofs of extraordinary ability. Of modern -languages, he knew--besides his own--English, French, German, and -Spanish. His knowledge of Greek and Latin is proved by his philological -works; and at the age of fourteen, his intimate acquaintance with -Rabbinical literature astonished some learned Jews of Ancona. But his -industry was fatal to himself. As a child he seems to have enjoyed good -health; but from the age of sixteen to twenty-one his form became bent -and his constitution weaker and weaker; and from the latter date, his -life was one series of infirmities. - -The deepest melancholy took possession of his mind. His imagination was -of intense strength, but it served only to conjure up the gloomiest -visions. He conceived a morbid hatred of Recanati, hatred uttered in -immortal verse in the "Ricordanze." Though surrounded by those he -loved, and living in a handsome style in his father's house, life -became unendurable to him. He conceived a wild idea of flight, and -actually wrote a letter to his father, explaining his motives for so -doing. But happily the scheme was abandoned, and the letter never -delivered, although it was preserved by his brother Carlo and published -some years ago. This letter was written in July, 1819. He complains of -the little liberty that was allowed him; of the dreadful monotony of -life at I Recanati, of the little opportunity he had of exercising his -N talents to his future advantage; and of the sufferings inflicted upon -him by his "strange imagination" in the absence of all pleasure and -recreation. - -This last complaint was certainly well-founded. If ever man required -distraction and amusement, it was Leopardi. With his self-harassing -mind, his melancholy, his delicacy of health, solitude was to him the -worst of evils. Change might have done him some good, but change was -not to come for another three years, and when it came, it was too late. - -In the course of 1819, to his other miseries was added that of failing -sight, in consequence of overstudy. He was obliged to pass nearly -twelve months without reading or writing; and during this period he -began to meditate on the problems of life, laying the foundation of the -gloomy philosophy which was to inspire all his future productions. - -Two years previously he had begun to correspond with the celebrated -writer, Pietro Giordani, a man of brilliant intellect and generous -character, who became immediately his intense admirer and devoted -friend; and who spoke and wrote of him in terms that might then have -seemed extravagant, but which were fully justified by the event. Our -poet published, among other works of less importance, translations of -passages from the "Odyssey," and an essay on the "Popular Errors of the -Ancients." - -But works of greater value, though of smaller dimensions, were soon -to follow. At the age of twenty he published the "Ode to Italy" and -the "Poem on the Monument of Dante;" and, two years later, one of his -masterpieces, the "Ode to Angelo Mai." It is sad to relate that Mai in -later years, instead of being grateful to the poet for addressing him -in sublime verse, depreciated his learning, and coolly appropriated the -emendations to an ancient Greek author, which had been communicated to -him by the too-confiding Leopardi. Indeed, our poet showed himself in -Greek more than a match for that celebrated scholar. - -The winter at Recanati being cold and windy, his parents were at last -persuaded to give him leave to go to Rome in November, 1822, hoping the -milder climate would produce a beneficial effect. - -On arriving in Rome, he wrote to his brother Carlo, confessing that -all the marvels of that city had already palled upon him, and that -his melancholy, instead of diminishing, was increasing. Nor did this -impression vanish with time. He tells his sister Paolina that the -most stupid person in Recanati had more sense than the wisest Roman. -The frivolity of society disgusted him, and even the grandeur of -the public buildings wrought a disagreeable effect upon his mind. -He made, however, some pleasant and agreeable acquaintances, among -others, the historian Niebuhr, at that time Prussian Ambassador -to the Vatican. Niebuhr conceived the highest admiration for his -talents, and spoke of him in terms of the warmest eulogy to Cardinal -Consalvi, Secretary of State to Pius VII. The Cardinal offered him -rapid promotion on condition of his entering the priesthood; but -not feeling the vocation, Leopardi was too conscientious to do so. -For his own prosperity this refusal was unfortunate; but we must -approve the motives that prompted it, and, indeed, we could scarcely -picture to ourselves the author of "Amore e Morte" in the garb of a -Monsignor. Pius VII. died a few months later, and Consalvi retired -from the direction of public affairs. So favourable an opportunity -never returned. Niebuhr offered our poet an appointment in Prussia; -but he declined it, dreading the long journey and the rigorous climate -of Berlin. His greatest pleasure consisted in receiving letters from -home, and when his health permitted, in pursuing his studies in the -Vatican library. The literary society of Rome was not congenial, its -exclusive devotion to antiquarian minutiae seemed to him both tedious -and trifling. - -In May, 1823, he returned to Recanati as ailing as when he left it, -and life appeared to him more "weary, stale, flat and unprofitable" -than before. He had hoped, as he says in the "Ricordanze," that beyond -the "azure mountains" bounding his native horizon, a world of unknown -felicity extended; he had explored it, and found nothing but vanity and -affliction of spirit. - -But as years advanced, his genius was becoming more mature, his -thoughts more profound, his style more beautiful. In 1824 he published, -at Bologna, the first edition of his "Canti," containing the three -poems already mentioned, and seven others, of which the last is that -entitled "Alla Sua Donna," which is, in the present arrangement of -his poems, the eighteenth, its former place being now occupied by -the "Primo Amore." These splendid verses show his genius in its full -meridian. - -Two years had elapsed since his return from Rome when he received an -offer from the Milanese publisher, Stella, to undertake an edition of -the complete works of Cicero, and to reside with him whilst engaged on -this task. He accepted the invitation readily, and started in July, -1825, staying at Bologna for a month on the way, during the great -heat. Bologna he liked more than any other town he had yet seen, and he -had some agreeable friends, amongst others, the devoted Giordani. When -he arrived in Milan there were too many gaieties to please him, and he -longed to return to Bologna. He did so towards the end of September, -and stayed in Bologna until November of the following year, excepting -a short trip to Ravenna. During this period, he was occupied with -the edition of Cicero, translations from the Greek, and a commentary -on Petrarch. But the pleasure he took in Bologna did not last long; -the cold winter tried him, and he began to regret the liveliness and -hospitality of Milan. - -Always wretched at Recanati, he still, by an amiable contradiction of -sentiment, when absent, pined for home; and in November, 1826, his -family had him again in their midst, although he was so enfeebled that -he was obliged to make the journey by short stages. It would appear -that during his sojourn at Bologna he had not been insensible to the -attractions of love, but love could be for him nothing but a source of -torment; and, as his first return home was signalised by the wreck of -hope, so was his second by the blighting of affection. He seemed like -the hero of the "Pilgrim's Progress," to be writhing in the grasp of -Giant Despair; and from the day of his arrival, till his departure in -the following April, he was not once seen in the streets of Recanati. - -He sought a remedy for his sorrows by returning to Bologna, but in -vain; and, on the twentieth of June, 1827, he removed to Florence, -where he enjoyed the society of Giordani; but an acute inflammation -of the eyes confined him to the house, and long prevented him from -inspecting the treasures of art that overflow the Tuscan city. At this -epoch he published his "Operette Morali," a series of dialogues and -essays, offering, according to the best critics of his country, the -most perfect specimen of prose in the Italian language. - -In the autumn he somewhat recovered, and wishing to continue the -improvement, he avoided the cold of Florence by wintering at Pisa. -Florence, as a residence, he did not like, but with Pisa he was -enchanted. The improvement, however, was but slight, and his nerves -were in such a weak state that any sort of application or study was out -of the question. In April, 1828, he was able to apply himself again to -composition and seemed to revive; when the death of one of his brothers -afflicted him profoundly. From June to November he was again in -Florence, but his yearning for home made itself felt after the recent -bereavement. - -He started on the twelfth of November for Recanati, in the company of -a young man, who was afterwards known to fame as Vincenzo Gioberti. He -found his birthplace darkened by the shadow of death, that seemed to -him the herald of his own. His former gloom returned, but in a more -terrible; he saw only annihilation before him, and took the last glance -of life in his superb "Ricordanze," the most richly coloured, the most -deeply pathetic, the most unfathomably profound of all his poems. - -In 1830, his Florentine friends, wishing to have him once more in -their midst, urged his return to their city. Accordingly, in May, he -took leave of his family, little thinking he should never see them -again. It would be curious to enquire what made him so wretched when -at home, and yet, when absent, always longing to be there. His brother -Carlo said many years later to Prospero Viani, the editor of his -correspondence, that none of his poems written elsewhere had the beauty -of those composed at Recanati; and when Viani mentioned the "Ginestra," -Carlo replied that even the "Ginestra" was conceived at Recanati. Some -biographers say the "Risorgimento" was written at Pisa, but Ranieri, -who was probably well informed, says it was written at, Recanati, and -this assertion is, I think, borne out by internal evidence. The "Canto -Notturno" seems also to have been written in his birthplace. Thus -Carlo's statement would be correct. It is observable that the poems -subsequent to the "Canto Notturno," with the exception of "Aspasia" -and the little poem "To Himself," have an air of languor foreign to -his earlier productions. This languor is perceptible even in the -sublime "Ginestra," and it is not absent in passages of the "Pensiero -Dominante," "Amore e Morte," and the long mock-heroic "Paralipomeni." -The repose, sepulchral as it may have seemed to him, of Recanati, -and the exquisite beauty of its scenery, were conducive to the -exercise of the imagination. Nor must we forget that he spoke of other -places--except Pisa and Bologna--with equal bitterness. The climate -seems really to have worked havoc on his delicate frame. He allowed its -inhabitants only one merit, that of speaking Italian with purity and -elegance. - -His stay in Florence, which extended from May, 1830, to October of -the following year, was made memorable by the publication of another -edition of his "Canti," with many poems added to the former ten, and -with a dedicatory epistle to his "Tuscan friends." At this period he -made the acquaintance of Ranieri, a Neapolitan with literary talents, -who was to be his intimate friend and future biographer. - -In October, 1831, he suddenly vanished from Florence and appeared -in Rome; why, none could tell. He wrote to his brother Carlo on the -subject, begging him not to ask for the details of a long romance, full -of pain and anguish. It is conjectured that he fixed his affections -on an unworthy object and was bitterly undeceived. Whatever the -circumstances may have been, it is certain that in Rome his mental -misery, always great, rose to an intolerable height, and, sad to -relate, he for a time harboured thoughts of self-destruction But the -strength of his character overcame the strength of his affliction, and -he gradually softened to a serener mood. At this time, the Florentine -Academia della Crusea elected him a member--a worthy tribute to his -genius and eloquence. After five months sojourn in Rome he returned to -Florence, where he fell so dangerously ill that the rumour was spread -of his decease. The doctors urged him to try a milder climate, and in -September, 1833, he set out for Naples, accompanied by Ranieri. - -In Naples and its vicinity the remainder of his life was to be passed. -The natural beauties of the surrounding country were delightful to -one so appreciative of their charm. His health improved after a time, -and he was able to display the riches of his intellect by writing the -"Paralipomeni," many detached thoughts in prose like the "Pensées" -of Pascal and the Maxims of La Rochefoucauld; and, above all, his -philosophic and immortal poem, the "Ginestra," of which it may be said -that, had he written nothing else, his fame would be perpetuated by -this production alone. - -In March, 1836, he who had formerly sighed so deeply for death, and -who had invoked it in such exquisite verse, felt so greatly improved -in health that he imagined he had many years before him. But this was -only the last flickering of the flame before it went out for ever. -The cholera was raging in 1837, and the prospect of falling a victim -to a mysterious and terrible disease filled him with horror. His -strange aversion to the places where he lived revived with unreasonable -violence. He wrote of Naples as a den of barbarous African savagery. -He yearned for home, and pined for his family, and the last letter -he wrote to his father--three weeks before his decease--was full of -plans for returning to Recanati, as soon as his infirmities and the -Quarantine would allow. But his earthly sorrows were drawing to a -close, and he died suddenly at Capo di Monte, when preparing to go -out for a drive, at five o'clock in the afternoon, on the fourteenth -of June, 1837, aged thirty-eight years, eleven months and sixteen -days.[1] "His body," says Ranieri, "saved as by a miracle from the -common and confused burial-place, enforced by the Cholera Regulations, -was interred in the suburban Church of San Vitale, on the road of -Pozzuoli, where a plain slab indicates his memory to the visitor." He -was slight and short of stature, somewhat bent, and very pale, with a -large forehead and blue eyes, an aquiline nose and refined features, a -soft voice, and a most attractive smile. - -[Footnote 1: His father survived him ten years; his sister, Paolina, -thirty-two years; and his brother Carlo nearly forty-one years.] - -From the annals of his life we proceed to the chronicle of his glory. -But to understand the poet we must have a knowledge of the man. Homer, -Shakespeare, and Ariosto can be appreciated without any acquaintance -with their lives and characters. It is not so with poets whose works -give utterance to their subjective feelings. Even Dante requires some -biographical elucidation. How much more is this the case with a writer -whose originality is so pronounced, and whose views are so coloured by -his own nature as to appear surprising, and at first alarming, to the -reader! - -If Aristotle be right in his opinion that all great geniuses are -inclined to melancholy, Leopardi ought surely to be considered the -greatest genius that ever lived. His gloomy view of life is expressed -in every line he wrote. It draws a dark veil across the gorgeous -verses to Angelo Mai; it fills the cadences of the "Ricordanze" with -mysterious melody; and it appears in august repose in the meditations -of the "Ginestra." Not content with giving it utterance in verse, he -is sedulous to support it by reason and disquisition in prose. That -there was something morbid and diseased in it can hardly be denied, -even after we have made full allowances for the fact that his gloom is -metaphysical and transcendental, and not strictly applied, or meant to -apply to the every-day occurrences of life. But we must go further and -enquire how it came that a man of such powers of intellect yielded to -this tendency. - -I think several explanations offer themselves, without recurring to -his physical infirmities, a solution of the problem which always gave -him the deepest offence. In the first place, we must bear in mind the -singular training, or, rather, absence of training, he experienced. -From the age of ten he had no instructors except himself. His father's -vast library quenched his thirst for knowledge; but knowledge so -acquired must necessarily be, in important respects, uncertain and -fragmentary. His ideas, never being contradicted, never influenced, and -never softened, must gradually have obtained such a hold on his mind as -to establish an eternal tyranny. An imagination of marvellous vividness -and richness was fostered by the exquisite scenery of his birthplace, -and allowed to prey upon itself in the undisturbed retirement of the -parental abode. He informs us that in his childhood he enjoyed the most -delicious visions of coming happiness. But in time the dreams were -dispelled, and truth alone remained. We all have our illusions, from -which we must sooner or later awake, but few of us take their loss so -deeply to heart as Leopardi. And this consideration makes us aware -of the fact that all his thoughts and feelings were of preternatural -depth. Others might allow themselves to be diverted from the stern -reality of things by trifles; but he stood face to face with Nature, -and saw the revelation of all her Gorgon terrors: - - "Natura, illaüdabil maraviglia, - Che per uccider partorisci e nutrì!" - - "Nature, thou marvel that I cannot praise, - Who givest life in order to destroy!" - -Others might allow themselves to be consoled for the loss of love -by frivolous considerations; but he never overcame the longing for -affection that was denied him, and his misery was unvisited by comfort: - - "Giacqui: insensato, attonito, - Non dimandai conforto; - Quasi perduto e morto - Il cor s' abbandonò." - -And when the bitterness of spiritual desolation rose to such a height -that further endurance was impossible, his only prayer was for death: - - "E tu, cui già dal cominciar del 'anni - Sempre onorata invoco, - Bella Morte, pietosa - Tu sola al mondo dei terreni affanni: - Se celebrata mai - Fosti da me, s'al tuo divino stato - L'onte del volgo ingrato - Ricompensar tentai: - Non tardar più, t'inchina - A disusati preghi: - Chiudi alla luce ornai - Questi occhi tristi, o dell 'età reina!" - -The finest passages in his poems were inspired by the deepest anguish -of his heart. Ill-health and deformity he felt as evils, chiefly -because they prevented him from appeasing his ardent yearning for love. - -This yearning was the result of the sweetness of his disposition. -Notwithstanding his melancholy, he seems never to have been morose or -disagreeable. His heart was unblemished by spite or malignity, and he -was, by universal testimony of those who knew him, singularly moral -and upright in all relations of life. Ranieri, in his "Sette Anni di -Sodalizio," published some years ago, tries to show his faults, but the -worst he can say of him is that he was excessively choice in his diet. -This little weakness he had in common with Alexander Pope, a poet in -whom the unkindness of nature produced very different effects. Pope's -omniverous vanity could derive nourishment even from his deformities: - - "There are who to my person pay their court: - I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short; - Great Ammon's son one shoulder had too high; - Such Ovid's nose, and 'Sir, you have an eye!'" - -But Leopardi wrote the "Last Song of Sappho: - - "Placida notte, e verecondo raggio - Della cadente Luna," etc. - -Vanity seems to have entered in no way into his composition. Nor had -he any of that ferocious vindictiveness which inspires many verses of -Pope with the venom of the deadliest vipers, though he also had his -libellers and his rivals. We know what revenge Pope took on the women -who slighted him, and with what unspeakable ribaldry he defiled them. -But Leopardi, in a similar position, wrote his incomparable "Aspasia," -not even revealing the real name of her to whom he alludes. The most -striking instance, however, of their dissimilarity, is the difference -in their philosophy. Pope's self-complacency allowed him to indulge -in optimism, with which, however, many of his finest passages are at -variance. His intellect had sudden flashes of intense truth, but he was -not a systematic or profound thinker, and when he wanted a system of -philosophy as theme to his brilliant verse, he took that most in vogue -in his time. - -Widely different was the development of Leopardi. He is the embodiment -in song of the spirit of pessimism, if that disagreeable word is to be -the cosmopolitan representative of what the Germans call "Weltschmerz." -His view of life is not the result of a sourness that would make -everything appear bad and unsatisfactory, but of an overweening -compassion for the sufferings of his fellow creatures. We hear his. -lamentations on the evils of life, but in his pages we see such -visions of beauty, such revelations of love, such exquisite glimpses -of nature that the world appears in his poetry more beautiful, though -more terribly and darkly beautiful, than in reality. If we analyze -a stanza or paragraph of his poems, we find a train of thought that -recurs with curious regularity. It generally opens with the most richly -coloured and delightful scenes; but when the reader is fully impressed -with their loveliness, the clouds gather, and the poet concludes with -the utterance of despair. The ode to Angelo Mai offers the earliest -instances of this in almost every stanza. It is also strikingly -exemplified in the opening paragraph of the "Vita Solitaria." Sometimes -a whole poem evolves in this manner, like the "Primavera," and the -verses to Silvia. Such was, indeed, the progress of his life. It began -with the most radiant and heavenly visions, it was darkened by the -storms of reality, and it concluded in sorrow and in gloom. Although -his sufferings did not originate his view of life, they certainly made -him express it with more poignancy than he would otherwise have done. - -The consideration of his philosophy leads us into the sanctuary of his -works. We have to deal exclusively with his poems, and can therefore -only bestow a passing glance on the other performances in which he -displayed the vigour of his mind. - -We have already mentioned his classical attainments. They are attested -by a vast quantity of works, most of which were produced when he was in -his teens. Wonderful monuments of industry, they were scarcely worth -the price he paid for them: for it was in their composition that he -ruined his health by over application. - -As I have mentioned above, the "Operette Morali" are remarkable for -their surpassing beauties of style, but they are no less so for depth, -energy, and originality of thought.[2] The poet in Leopardi probably -somewhat hampered the philosopher; and the philosopher may, now and -then, have prevented the poet from revelling in the flights of fancy. -Though not offering a new system of philosophy, his prose works are -well worthy of study; but were I to express my candid opinion, I -should say that the gloom which gives such tragic grandeur to his -lyrics, is somewhat out of place in essays and dialogues, and is only -redeemed by the perfection of the style. Indeed, if a foreigner may -judge, his prose is almost too perfect, its extreme finish depriving -it occasionally of energy. But no praise could be high enough for the -beautiful manner in which his phrases are balanced, for their varied -construction and noble harmony. - -[Footnote 2: There is an excellent translation of Leopardi's Prose -Works, by Charles Edwardes, in Trubner's Philosophical Series.] - -His poem entitled "Paralipomeni della Batracomiomachia," is, as the -name indicates, a sort of continuation of the Greek mock-heroic poem, -describing the "War of the Frogs and Rats." The subject is not very -happily chosen, and it is obvious that the narrative serves only to -introduce the digressions, and it is in these digressions that the -poet's brilliant imagination and felicity of style are displayed. -Certainly, since the days of Ariosto, stanzas of equal beauty had not -been produced in Italy. Still, the poem as a whole is not interesting, -although it possesses an air of gaiety and vivacity, wonderful when we -consider his habitual gloom. - -But Leopardi's universal renown is founded on the forty-one poems and -fragments of poems, published under the collective title of "Canti;" -and it is from that collection, exclusively, that the poems in this -volume are translated. - -In the time of Leopardi, Italian poetry had sunk to a very low ebb. -The leading poets of whom Italy could boast, were more remarkable for -graceful fancy and lively wit, than for sublimity and originality. -Parini and Alfieri alone exhibited striking intellectual qualities, -but they died when our poet was in his infancy. Parini, in whose -elegant satire all the refined frivolity of the eighteenth century -is reflected, had no great richness of invention; and Alfieri, than -whom no poet could boast of more boldness and energy of thought, was -deficient in imagination. The tuneful verse of Metastasio enchanted -Europe for fifty years; but the sweetness of his expression could not -disguise the trifling prettiness of his thoughts. Casti had vigour and -raciness enough to have made him a great satirist if he had chosen -fitter subjects for his undoubted genius than tedious apologues, -and lively, but licentious, tales. These poets were all dead before -Leopardi rose on the literary horizon, and the only established -poetical reputation he had to encounter, was that of Vincenzo Monti, -to whom he dedicated his first two Odes. If we examine the works of -Monti merely for the style, we shall find much to admire; but in -truth, nature, depth, and emotion, he was utterly deficient. The only -contemporary poets who at all approached Leopardi in intellect, were -Foscolo and Manzoni; but Foscolo, besides the disadvantage of living -in exile, frittered away his great powers on learned trifles; and -Manzoni soon deserted poetry for the more popular field of romance. -Thus it will be seen, that none of these poets were, in every respect, -admirable, nor did they, with the exception of Alfieri and Parini, -strike out new paths. - -How necessary was an original and soaring spirit to infuse life into -the poetry of Italy! At last the poet arose whose gifts were exactly -adapted to the arduous task. That Leopardi fulfilled his mission with -brilliant success, is proved by the ever increasing influence of his -genius. During his life-time he was known only to the master-spirits -of his age, but since his death, his works have become the property -of the nation at large. His greatness is acknowledged daily more and -more, and volumes are written on his life and writings, illustrating -and examining them from every point of view, and the more his poems are -studied, the more are their beauties revealed. - -As Carlyle said of Dante: "He is great, not because he is world-wide, -but because he is world-deep." This depth, so unfathomable, and yet so -remote from obscurity, is the first and greatest of his intellectual -qualities. Closely allied to it is his amazing originality of thought -and style. He deserted the hackneyed vehicles of expression current -in his day, the minute Sonnet and the elaborate Petrarchan Canzone. -His thoughts, for the most part, flow in an easy and pellucid style -through an alternation of rhymed and unrhymed verses. He knew, what -so few poets of modern times even suspect, the value of economy. What -he can say in one line, he does not dilute into five, If one simile -suffices for his purpose, he does not regale the reader with ten. -Bombast and grandiloquence he shunned, nay, he rather courted the -other extreme of severe simplicity. Though a man of vast learning, -he seldom indulged in allusions. In reading his poems we are brought -into direct contact with Nature, and with her alone, so perfectly does -he divest himself of every thought foreign to his present subject. -His verses seem the inspiration of the moment, and not the result of -elaborate study. We see him in the "Ricordanze," surveying the objects -that revive the memories of the past; we see him in the little poem to -the Moon, ascending the hill to behold the familiar radiance; we see -him in the "Ginestra," gazing on the sparkling heavens and the fiery -crater of Vesuvius, until we quite lose the sense of perusing a written -performance. - -And yet we know that he bestowed elaborate care on his works. He says -himself that he had an ideal of unattainable perfection in his mind, -which deterred him from writing works of great extent, whether in prose -or verse. But that ideal I think he really has attained in some of -his finest poems. The merit of his works, not only in degree, but in -kind, is so immeasurably superior to that of his contemporaries, that -we cannot find a standard for judging it without going back to the -greatest masters of the art of poetry. I have no hesitation in placing -him immediately after Dante and Ariosto for strength of poetical -genius. He surpasses Petrarch in variety and comprehensiveness of mind, -although he may not always equal him in richness of style. For genuine -poetical inspiration in the purely lyrical sphere he has no rivals in -modern times except Shelley, Keats, and Goethe. To prove that this -eulogy is not exaggerated, we will now examine the "Canti" in the order -of their arrangement. - -I. "All 'Italia." This poem, written at the age of twenty, though -appearing first in the collection, was not by any means a first attempt -at poetry. Leopardi had, it is true, up to this time devoted his -attention chiefly to learned subjects, but he had written as well a -considerable amount of verse, one of his earliest productions being a -tragedy in three acts, "Pompeo in Egitto," which shows great command of -language for the age of thirteen, at which it was written. We find, -therefore, in this first poem of the celebrated series, full mastery -over the mechanism of verse and fine flashes in the three opening -stanzas, but the introduction of Simonides is not a happy fiction. He -should have confined himself to the history of his own country, which -offers more striking themes than this classical reminiscence. - -II. "Sopra il Monumento di Dante." The tyranny of Napoleon I., that -weighed so heavily on Italy in the early part of this century, is most -forcibly described, especially in the wonderful stanzas narrating -the death of the Italian troops in the Russian campaign of 1812. How -sublime are the opening lines of the tenth stanza: - - "Di lor querela il boreal deserto, - E conscie fur le sibilanti selve." - -The apostrophe to Dante in the fifth stanza is full of fervour; but, -perhaps the only instance of bombast to be found in our poet is the -preceding address to the sculptors. - -III. "Ad Angelo Mai." I have mentioned above that I consider this Ode -to Angelo Mai on his discovery of Cicero's "Republic," one of our -poet's three great masterpieces. I was confirmed in this opinion by -Johannes Scherr, who, in his "Allgemeine Literaturgeschichte," extols -it as one of the sublimest Odes in any language. How great, therefore, -was my surprise on perusing Montefredini's Life of Leopardi, to find -that the author has nothing but blame and ridicule for this poem. He, -though so ardent an admirer of Leopardi, cannot find words strong -enough to express his contempt for such rubbish. We may, indeed, -agree with him, that the discovery of an old manuscript by a monk -is scarcely an event of sufficient importance to warrant poetical -raptures. But if we condemn all poems that take their starting point -from a slight occurrence, we must begin by denying merit to Pindar, -for what can be more intrinsically trivial than the foundation on -which he builds his lofty fabrics? It is further a mystery to me how -Montefredini can understand the eighth stanza to allude to Tasso, when -it is obvious that it applies to no one but Ariosto, and is a most -exquisite description of the effect produced by that poet on the mind, -offering, perhaps, the finest passage in a poem replete with beauties. -How sublime are the verses on Columbus, and how picturesque is the -lamentation on the decline of the imaginative powers! - -IV. "Nelle Nozze della Sorella Paolina." This poem on a marriage -that never took place, but was only projected, is not equal to its -predecessors, but it is nevertheless original, and in parts forcible, -and full of patriotic inspiration. His sister was the only member of -his family whom he has immortalized in verse. - -V. "A un Vincitore nel Pallone." I did not think it necessary to -translate this ode, as it only repeats feebly what its predecessors -uttered energetically. These five poems form a distinct class, the -patriotic, in our poet's works. Henceforth his horizon becomes wider, -and he laments, not only the sorrows of Italy, but those of all mankind. - -VI. "Bruto Minore." In the foregoing poems Leopardi plays, as it were, -a prelude; but now the curtain rises on the tragedy of his life. To -avoid justifying his despair, he puts his soliloquy into the mouth -of Brutus, after the disaster of Phillipi. There are flashes in the -poem that seem to illuminate an abyss of misery and gloom, and here he -first gives utterance to one of those piercing laments which make his -subsequent poems so impressive: - - "O casi! O gener vano! Abbietta parte - Siam delle cose." - -He himself looked upon this as one of his most remarkable poems, but -I cannot consider it one of the most beautiful; the thoughts are not -always presented with all possible force, and the odd idea of animals -committing suicide is rather ludicrous. But the poem is full of -significance. Montefredini observes very justly: "It is the first -wail of his tortured soul, the first malediction against the cruelty -of Nature. The sentiment is powerful, and rushes forth furiously. So -young, he is utterly miserable, and his opinions of life and the world -are already full of despair. Even the calm aspect of nature wounds -him as though it were an insult to his sorrow, a cruel mocking of -the tempest of the soul.... The physical and mental life of Leopardi -assumed too soon a fatal bent. As in his youth his bodily sufferings -were excessive, so are his early poems finally and immensely sad. No -other youthful poems contain so much despair or proceed from such -a bleeding heart. Leopardi buries himself in his immense sorrow, -deserting the region of airy fancy in which young poets delight.... -This tumult of emotion proves that he had not yet resigned himself to -his fate. He was not born for such bitter utterance, nor are these the -fit inspirations of early poetry. Instead of the beautiful themes of -joy, hope and fond desire, our poet can only sing of his despair." - -VII. "Alla Primavera." He was too much of a poet to desert the realms -of fancy without a glance of affectionate regret, and in this poem to -Spring, he conjures up with magic voice the fables of the past. Between -the gloom of Brutus and the radiant loveliness of these visions, -how great is the contrast! This is, in my opinion, one of the most -elaborate and polished of his productions, and I am again obliged to -differ from Montefredini as to the merits of this Ode. - -VIII. "Inno ai Patriarchi." This hymn also has the misfortune of -not pleasing Montefredini. Still, it contains passages wonderfully -picturesque, and is a worthy fruit of our poet's intimate acquaintance -with Hebrew literature. - -IX. "Ultimo Canto di Saffo." As in the monologue of Brutus, Leopardi -uttered his own views of life; so in the "Last Song of Sappho" he -expresses how keenly he felt his physical afflictions. How august -and calm is the opening, and how beautifully the poet blends his -sorrow with the description of Nature! The third stanza rises to -Æschylean sublimity. Two spirits seem to be battling for mastery -over the poet--the one pronouncing, the other lamenting, his doom. -Most beautiful is the effect achieved by the mysterious pathos of the -conclusion. - -X. "Il Primo Amore." After such a poem we almost doubt whether we shall -read further--whether any other poem can be read after that supreme -effort. But the "Primo Amore," though different in kind, is, as poetry, -equally valuable. The former piece astonished us with its sublimity; -this delights us with its delicacy. For depth of feeling and reality of -narration I know no love poem that surpasses it; but here and there we -find some obscurity and flatness in the diction. - -XI. "Il Passero Solitario." Not one of the least admirable qualities -of our poet is the great variety of expression he commands. The five -patriotic poems may be considered as producing one effect; but each -of the following is quite distinct from its predecessor, and the -"Passero Solitario" is again quite different from them all. It is also -remarkable as the first poem in his later manner--that of the "Canto -Notturno" and the "Ginestra." It is an idyl such as Theocritus, or, -rather, Wordsworth, might have written. The gloom is past, the despair -at rest, a gentle pensiveness alone remains. The picture of the setting -sun: - - "Che tra lontani monti, - Dopo il giorno sereno, - Cadendo si dilegua, e par che dica - Che la beata gioventù vien meno," - -always seemed to me the most perfect instance of subjective colouring -of nature in the whole range of poetry. - -XII. "L'Infinito." This little gem concentrates in a few lines the -lustre of the richest poetry. The more we examine it, the more we -admire. - -XIII. "La Sera del Dè di Festa." Though not equal to its four immediate -predecessors, I think this poem worthy of high admiration for the -delicacy and rapidity of its transitions. It is wonderful to observe -with what ease the poet rises from simplicity to sublimity, and returns -again to simplicity. What perfection of art and what discrimination of -style! - -XIV. "Alla Luna." A more tender sigh was never breathed in song than -here. I wish I could have done justice to the exquisite lines: - - "E tu pendevi allor su quella selva - Siccome or fai, che tutta la rischiari." - -XV. "Il Sogno" is a very trifling production, with a few lines worthy -of its author, but too insignificant to deserve translation. - -XVI. "La Vita Solitaria." The second paragraph contains the finest -poetical illustration I know of what Schopenhauer calls "Willensfreie -Anschauen," and is in our poet's noblest style; the concluding -apostrophe to the Moon is very animated, but the poem is disjointed and -incoherent, and each paragraph would make a separate poem. - -XVII. "Consalvo." If we were to judge from internal evidence alone, we -should say that this production was the work of a feeble and unskilful -imitator of our poet; so indifferent in execution as to be almost a -parody on his manner. Hysterical, exaggerated, and heavy, it offers -not one spark of his genius. Here, for once, Montefredini's unsparing -severity is in the right place; I have therefore omitted it in my -translation. - -XVIII. "Alla Sua Donna." This poem was the tenth in the first edition -of the "Canti." I do not know, why the poet removed it to its present -place in the edition of 1837. It is eminently beautiful, and written -throughout in the author's happiest style. As the expression of a -yearning towards a superhuman ideal, it is peerless. There is nothing -more sublime in Petrarch. - -XIX. "Al Conte Carlo Pepoli." This epistle is somewhat Horation in -diction, with some beautiful thoughts and charming verses, but not so -characteristic of the author as to be essential to a translation. It -might have been written by a less distinguished poet than Leopardi. It -is, however, a proof of his great variety of style. - -XX. "Il Risorgimento" is the pearl of this collection. - - "Credei ch'ai tutto fossero - In me, sul fier degl 'anni, - Mancati i dolci affanni - Della mia prima età: - I dolci affanni, i teneri - Moti del cor profondo, - Qualunque cosa al mondo - Grato il sentir ci fa." - -What melody and sweetness of style! How richly h e describes his gloom, -and how vividly his revival to the joys of life! - - "Meco ritorna a vivere - La piaggia, il bosco, il monte; - Parla al mio core il fonte, - Meco favella il mar." - -And how noble is the conclusion: - - "Mancano, il sento, all anima, - Alta, gentile e pura, - La sorte, la natura, - Il mondo e la beltà. - Ma se tu vivi, O misero, - Se non concedi al fato, - Non chiamerò spietato - Chi lo spirar mi dà." - -Of the other poems I hope I have been able to give an almost adequate -rendering; but of this, such a rendering was impossible. The sense is -so blended with the music of the verse, and the music is so peculiar to -the Italian language, that I doubt whether any translation could ever -do it full justice. It is quite unique among his works. He never wrote -anything before or afterwards even remotely like it. He seems to have -revelled in the sweetness of the melody, and to have sported with his -sorrow in the music of the lines. - -XXI. "A Silvia." The subject of this poem was a young girl of Recanati, -whom the poet and his brother Carlo used frequently to see in their -young days. It is a beautiful specimen of his almost supernatural -powers of concentration and depth. From bewailing her untimely end, -the poet rises to contemplate the vanity of earthly things. "Before -such masterpieces," Montefredini justly observes, "as 'Silvia' and the -'Passero Solitario,' we are struck dumb with admiration." It is an -instance of how powerful an effect a great writer can produce by slight -means. - -XXII. "Le Ricordanze." If I were asked to award the palm to one above -all the other "Canti," I should name the "Ricordanze." It offers a -combination of the rarest beauties. Possessing the highest biographical -interest as a picture of his youth, it invests all the visions it -conjures up with the richest poetical colouring. The reader will -observe how simple is the opening, and how the verses gradually rise in -thought and style until they reach the splendid outburst: - - "E che pensieri immensi, - Che dolci sogni mi spirò la vista - Di quel lontano mar, quei monti azzurri, - Che di qua scopro, e che varcare un giorno - Io mi pensava, acani mondi, acana - Felicità fingendo al viver mio!" - -This superb passage is concluded with the utterance of tragic emotion: - - "Ignaro del mio fato, e quante volte - Questa mia vita dolorosa e nuda - Volentier con la morte avrei cangiato." - -Then, by a natural transition, he introduces the celebrated imprecation -on Recanati, the energy of which leads us to forget its injustice. How -beautifully is youth called "the solitary flower of barren life!" -Still more beautiful is the following paragraph with its description -of happy childhood. The apostrophe to his vanished hopes is full of -sublimity, as also the picture of his gloomy meditations. The two -last paragraphs make a worthy conclusion, especially the transcendant -passage on Nerina, to which no parallel can be found in the whole range -of lyric poetry. - -XXIII. "Canto Notturno di un Pastore Errante dell' Asia." This poem -was suggested by a passage in Baron Meyendorffs "Voyage d'Orenbourg à -Boukhara," quoted in the "Journal des Savans," for September, 1826, -where, speaking of a nomadic tribe of Asia, he says: "Plusieurs d'entre -eux passent la nuit assis sur une pierre à regarder la lune, et à -improviser des paroles assez tristes sur des airs qui ne le sont pas -moins." Some critics are inclined to place the "Canto Notturno" above -all other productions of our poet, and the opening is indeed divine: - - "Che fai tu, Luna, in ciel? dimmi, che fai, - Silenziosa Luna? - Sorgi la sera, e vai, - Contemplando i deserti; indi ti posi. - Ancor non sei tu paga - Di riandare i sempiterni calli? - Ancor non prendi a schivo, ancor sei vaga - Di mirar queste valli?" - -"The picture of life in the second stanza," says Montefredini, "is as -gloomily sublime as anything ever written of a similar nature. It seems -laden with the sighs of oppressed humanity. And what repose amidst -the universal darkness! What a style!--like the voice of an immortal. -All is solemn, immense, eternal. This poem will ever be the poem of -all nations--the noblest and grandest expression of human sorrow." -Great praise is also due to the skill with which the poet preserves the -character he has assumed. The shepherd does not enter into abstruse and -subtle speculations--he only gives utterance to a vague wonder at the -mystery of things, and this vagueness makes the poem deeply impressive. -But still there remains something unsatisfactory in the latter part, -and the gloom of the conclusion is exaggerated. - -XXIV. "La Quiete dopo la Tempesta" is a feeble copy of verses. There is -a lovely touch of natural description: - - "Ecco il sereno - Rompe là da ponente, alla montagna; - Sgombrasi la campagna, - _E chiaro nella valle il fiume appare._" - -Otherwise it offers nothing remarkable. - -XXV. "Il Sabato del Villaggio" opens with an exquisitely idyllic -description of a girl returning with flowers from a country ramble, and -of an old woman relating the memories of her youth, while spinning with -her neighbours. The description of evening is worthy of Wordsworth: - - "Già tutta l'aria imbruna, - Torna azzurro il sereno, e tornan l'ombre - Giù da colli e da' tetti, - Al biancheggiar della recente luna." - -But the remainder of the poem is insufferably languid and trivial. -Those two pieces are omitted in translation. - -XXVI. "Il Pensiero Dominante" is an instance of our poet's mighty -originality. It is as profound as a chorus of Æschylus, and fathoming -its mystic depths is like venturing on an unknown ocean. The simile of -the Pilgrim is strikingly beautiful, and more so in a poet singularly -sparing of such ornaments. - -XXVII. "Amore e Morte" equals its predecessor in originality, and -surpasses it in tenderness. The Greek simplicity and purity of style -conceal the morbid and diseased sources of its inspiration. The -apostrophe to death is the most fervent prayer ever uttered in song. - -XXVIII. "A Se Stesso" is the only poem of Leopardi that is from -beginning to end utterly gloomy, bitter and despairing. All his other -poems have at least glimpses of beauty and serenity, but here there are -none. - -XXIX. "Aspasia." The passion rushes forth wildly and ungovernably in -this outburst of unrequited affection. Every word betrays how deeply -he loved the woman to whom it is addressed. It seems to me worthy of a -high rank among his poems, as proving how fully he enters into every -subject he treats. His embodiment of an abstruse metaphysical idea in -the most impassioned poetry is above all praise. - -XXX. "Sopra un Basso Rilievo Antico Sepolcrale" is deficient in warmth -of colouring, but the apostrophe to Nature and the pathetic conclusion -are fine. - -XXXI. "Sopra il Ritratto di una Bella Donna" is a feeble echo of the -former not very successful poem, and is, therefore, omitted in our -translation. - -XXXII. "Palinodia al Marchese Gino Capponi." This is the only satire -in this collection, but it does not equal the satiric vigour shown -in the mock-heroic "Paralipomeni." The humour is forced and the -style heavy, an unhappy imitation of Parini's elaborate irony. It is -written to prove that the inventions of modern times do not add to the -real happiness of mankind. I have omitted it, because not offering a -favourable sample of our poet's lighter manner. - -XXXIII. "Il Tramonto della Luna" is a lamentation on the infirmities -of old age, written at a time when the poet imagined his life would -be prolonged. It has some affinity to the conclusion of the "Passero -Solitario," but the earlier poem is truer, because more moderately -expressed. - -XXXIV. "La Ginestra o il Fiore del Deserto." The last four poems -were not in our author's highest strain, but in the "Ginestra" he -summoned all his dying powers, and left a sublime legacy to the world. -"Ineffable poetry!" exclaims Giordani, "full of thunder and lightning -and funereal depth." We need not insist on its beauties, on the noble -opening, on the picturesque descriptions of the Vesuvius in the -latter part, descriptions that enhance and illustrate the philosophic -meditations. Giordani was of opinion that it was his best work, and -it certainly surpasses the others in one respect: it is characterised -by a spirit of sublime repose, resignation, and sweetness--a worthy -conclusion of his poetical career. But I do not doubt that many pieces -in this collection are more attractive to the general reader. - -The remaining seven numbers of the "Canti" consist only of fragments -and translations. The eighteen opening lines of the fragment beginning: - - "Spento il diurno raggio in Occidente." - -offer a splendid description of a moonlight night. - -And now that we have passed in review the works of this great poet, -we enquire wherein lies the charm, the irresistible charm, of his -writings. That charm has been felt by the greatest minds of the -century, and by many who have no sympathy with his philosophy. Alfred -de Musset, who had certainly little in common with the man or the -poet, wrote enthusiastic verses on the "sombre amant de la mort," and -declared that in the small volume of his poems more was to be found -than in works of epic length. - -I am inclined to think that the secret of his power lies in the -unique and exquisite contrast between the bitterness and gloom of his -thoughts and the sweetness and radiant beauty of his style. When other -poets give utterance to their misery and despair, they impart a sable -colouring to their diction. Not so Leopardi. He can exclaim: - - "So che natura é sorda, - Che miserar non sa." - -But the verses are steeped in loveliness and melody. Such is the first -and most powerful cause of the great effect he produces. Next we must -place, though higher in absolute merit, his quality of depth. With -the exception of Shakespeare and Dante, there is, I think, no poet -of modern times who equals him in depth of thought. Every subject he -treats he pierces to the core. Other poets may delight us with airier -and more brilliant flights of fancy, but Leopardi leads us to the brink -of abysses, and shews us their unfathomable depth. Fully to enjoy this -power we must read his finest passages slowly, and let each verse -saturate the mind. Hence the impression, after reading his "Canti," -that we have perused, not a small collection of short poems, but a work -of mighty design like "King Lear," or "Prometheus." - -The third cause of his greatness, but one that will weigh more with -critics than with the general public, is the austere severity of his -taste, which confines him strictly within the boundaries of his genius. -He never allows himself to enter an arena for which he knows himself -unfitted. He always remains purely poetical. He is never, except in -a few passages of his earliest poems, declamatory, and even when the -subject is philosophical, he avoids becoming merely moralizing. Hence -his productions are perfect of their kind. We must also allow him the -merit of never being tedious, and the skill of choosing attractive -subjects. But what will probably most endear him to posterity, is -the profound pathos, the human sympathy, he displays. From his own -sufferings he learnt to feel for those of all mankind. - -With regard to this translation, it has been my endeavour to render my -author's thoughts as accurately as possible; and whatever merits my -version may lack, it has at least the merit of fidelity. Fortunately, -the great freedom of Leopardi's metres makes fidelity not very -difficult to attain. Many of his poems are in blank verse, others in -a very peculiar union of rhymed and unrhymed iambic verses of eleven -and seven syllables. It is curious to observe how the poet in his -latter works more and more discards rhyme, as if it were too frivolous -an ornament for his lofty meditations, the harmonious effect being -produced by exquisite choice of words, and skilful variety of cadence. -Several poems are written in regular stanzas, but with some unrhymed -lines. I have translated the second, third, and sixth poems exactly in -the metrical arrangement of the original, with the same succession of -rhymed and unrhymed verses, only making the last line of each stanza -an Alexandrine. The "Last Song of Sappho," is also in the metre of the -original, but I always conclude regular stanzas with an Alexandrine. -Other poems in regular stanzas I have rendered without reference to the -rhymes of the original, with the exception of the "Primo Amore" and -the "Risorgimento." Italian critics do not find fault with Leopardi's -capricious use of rhymed and unrhymed verses, but I should have -scrupled to introduce it into the English language, had I not found -in Milton's "Lycidas" a precedent for so doing. In that poem there -are some verses without rhyme, though not so many as in Leopardi's -compositions; but in "Samson Agonistes," we find the chorus using -rhymes or not, with unlimited freedom. - - - - -POEMS OF LEOPARDI. - - - - TO ITALY. - - - O thou my country! I behold the walls, - The pillars and the arches of our sires, - Their towers and statues old: - But I do not behold - Their glory, or their weapons, or their bays, - Wherewith they were surcharged. Disarmed and fallen, - Thou dost thy brow and naked bosom show. - Oh! from thy deep wounds flow - What streams of blood! What pallor meets our gaze! - Where is thy beauty now? Of Heaven I ask, - And of the earth: "Oh say, - Who hath reduced her to this piteous plight?" - And what is worse, her arms strong fetters bind, - And without veil her hair floats to the wind, - And she, forlorn and sad, sits on the ground, - To anguish giving way. - Weep, O my Italy, for thou hast cause: - Born to surpass mankind - In every phase of Fortune, generous and unkind. - Even though thine eyes were torrents, nevermore - Could tears enough be shed - Thine injuries to weep and bitter shame, - O wretched slave, a glorious Queen of yore! - Who writes or thinks of thee, - And beareth in his mind thy vanished fame, - And sayeth not: "Why is her greatness dead? - What is the cause? Where is her ancient might? - Where is her valour in the glorious fight? - Who robbed thee of thy sword? - Who hath betrayed? What science, or what wiles. - Or what victorious lord - Despoiled thee of the garments of thy pride? - How didst thou fall, and when, - To this low state from regions glorified? - Doth no one fight for thee? No son of thine - Rise in thy cause? Bring weapons! I alone - Will fight, or perish in the fray divine. - Grant, Heaven, that even like fire - My blood may rise and all Italian souls inspire." - Where are thy sons? I hear a sound of arms, - Of chariots and of voices and of drums: - In countries far away - Thy sons meet war's affray. - Have patience, Italy, for comfort comes. - I see a storm of warriors and of steeds, - 'Mid smoke, the sword, by which the foeman bleeds, - Like lightning flashing wide. - Is not some balm unto thy soul supplied? - Wilt thou not gaze upon the doubtful field? - For whom their life-blood yield - The sons of Italy? Ah, woeful sight! - For alien lord, their gore in streams doth flow! - Oh! wretched he who perisheth in fight, - Not for his native soil and loving wife, - Not for his children's life, - But slain by others' foe - For stranger race, and cannot say in death: - "I give thee now the breath, - My fatherland most dear, thou didst on me bestow." - Oh fortunate and blessed and endeared - The olden times, when throngs - Unnumbered sought to perish for their land! - And ye, to whom revering praise belongs, - Passes of Thessaly, - Where Fate and Persia lost power to withstand - The brave, the generous, the immortal few! - Methinks your mountains with mysterious voice, - Your forests, and your rocks, and azure wave - Unto the stranger tell - How on that plain the bodies of the brave - In dauntless legions fell, - Their lives devoting glorious Greece to save. - Ferocious then and wild, - Did Xerxes o'er the Hellespont take flight, - Laden with scorn of every future day; - And on Antela's memorable height, - Where the blest throng, in dying, ne'er found death, - Simonides did stand, - And gazed upon the sky, the ocean, and the land. - With tear-worn eyes, and with deep-sighing heart, - While strong emotion made his step infirm, - He seized the tuneful lyre: - "Oh ever blessed ye - Who gave your bosoms to the hostile spears - For love of her who led you to the sun! - Ye, whom Greece loves, and nations far admire! - To arms and dangers dire - What love did guide those in their early years? - What love the old whose days were nearly done? - Why unto ye so gay - Appeared the final hour, that bright with smites - You hurried on the hard and tearful way? - It seemed as though to dance or banquet proud, - And not to death, your numbers did proceed. - But Hades gazed with greed - Upon your valiant crowd; - Nor were your spouses or your children near - When in the fatal fray - Without a kiss you perished, and without a tear. - "But not without the Persian's punishment - And anguish ne'er to die. - Even as into a field where bulls are pent - A famished lion rushes, and his fangs - And claws make havoc wild, - And give his bellowing victims fatal pangs: - Thus, 'mid the Persian multitudes doth fly - The wrathful valour of the sons of Greece. - Behold the horsemen and their steeds o'erturned! - See how the whirl of flight - Entangles cars in many a fallen tent! - And of the first to run, - The tyrant, pale, and with dishevelled hair! - See how with crimson stains - Of barbarous blood the Grecian brave besmeared, - Giving the Persians infinite despair, - Fall, by their wounds exhausted, one by one, - Covering each other on the gory plains! - O blessed ye! for aye - To live whilst earth preserves a chronicle or lay! - "Sooner destroyed and cast into the deep - From highest heaven the stars shall hissing fall, - Rather than your renown - Forego its glorious crown. - An altar is your tomb; and full of love, - The mothers to their infants shall display - The traces of your blood. Behold, I sink, - Ye blessed, on the earth, - And kiss the rocks and the most cherished soil - That shall be praised and glorious for aye - Throughout creation's girth. - Would I were with you in your graves below! - Would that my gore with yours combined could flow! - But if our different doom forbids that I - For Greece should perish in heroic fray, - And close for her mine eye: - Yet may the fame, endeared - To future ages, of your poet shine; - And if the Gods benign - Consent, as long as yours be glorious and revered." - - - - - ON THE MONUMENT OF DANTE ABOUT TO - BE ERECTED IN FLORENCE. - - - Although our race at last - By Peace is sheltered 'neath her snowy wings, - Italian spirits ne'er - Shall rive the chains by ancient languor cast, - Unless our hapless country to the fame - Of her proud sires her meditation brings. - Italia! bear in mind - To honour the departed, for of such - Thy provinces are empty; none can claim - Like praise of those who now are drawing breath. - Turn and behold the numbers unconfined, - My land, of heroes whom no time can touch, - And full of shame bewail thine honour's death, - For without indignation grief is vain: - Turn to the past, and by thy shame revive, - And mindful be again - Of those who are no more, of those who still do strive. - Different in face, in language, and in mind, - On Tuscan soil the stranger takes his way, - Desirous much to learn - Where he the ashes of the bard can find - Who equalled Ilion's poet in his song. - And, oh inglorious day! - He hears not only that the body cold, - The naked bones afar - Are lying in a weary exile long, - But that not even within thy walls a stone, - O Florence! stands for him, whose glory old - Shines on thee like a star. - O ye, thrice bounteous, by whose deed alone - Shall this reproach be banished from our land! - A noble work is thine, whence love shall flow, - Renowned and courteous band, - From hearts that with deep love for Italy yet glow. - Yes, love for the ill-starred - Italian land, ye generous, be your guide! - She, to whom pity is dead - In every heart, for wretched and most hard - Are now the days that follow her past joy. - May you, by mercy, be with fire supplied - To crown the works you wrought! - May grief and wrath inspire you for the woe - Whence Italy is weeping her annoy! - But with what praise, or what immortal song - Shall we extol you, who not merely in thought, - But with the genius whence your bosoms glow, - Sublimest palms shall find in ages long, - Your land adorning with so high a deed? - Unto your souls what lay shall I address, - That in your hearts may feed - The never dying fire, and your high thoughts express? - Like torches, verily, the noble theme - Shall in your spirit throw the kindling blaze. - Who can the wave describe - Of your proud ire and patriotic dream? - say, who can paint the rapture of your brow? - The lightning of your gaze? - What mortal utterance of celestial thing - A faint reflection give? - Hence, ye profane! what tears of joyaunce now - The marble proud form Italy shall claim? - Shall it e'er fall? Shall time a shadow fling - On your renown? Ye live, - Wherewith the anguish of our grief we tame, - Ye live for aye, O cherished arts divine! - The only comfort of our hapless race. - Ye round our ruins twine - Your loveliness, preserving our old honour's trace. - Lo! I as well with zeal - Inspired to honour our grieved and sublime - Mother, bring what I can, - And with my song join in your chisel's peal, - Reclining where your skill gives marble life. - O lofty father of Etruscan rhyme! - If of terrestrial things, - And if of her whom thou hast placed so high, - In thine abode the tidings can be rife: - I know that not for thee thou feelest joy, - That frailer than the sands the ocean brings, - Likened to thy renown, which ne'er shall die, - Are bronze and marble; and if years destroy, - Or have destroyed, thine image in our soul, - Our anguish shall even more disastrous grow, - And thy race, by the whole - Wide world despised, shall weep in everlasting woe. - But not for thee, for this thy hapless land - Be joyous, if the example of its sire - Can ever give such strength - Unto the race, so sunk in slumber's hand, - That for a moment it can greatly dare. - Oh! by what evils dire - Thou seest her bowed down, who so ill-starred - Seemed to thine eyes when thou - To Paradise didst finally repair! - Now so reduced that, to her present plight, - She then was like a queen whom splendours guard. - Such anguish crowns her now - That when thou seest, thou mayst doubt thy sight. - The other evils and the other foes, - But not the newest and the most unkind, - I shall in silence close, - Whereby thy land well nigh its fatal hour did find. - Thrice blessed thou, whom Fate - Did not condemn such horrors to behold! - Who didst not see embraced, - By foemen fierce, Italian wives; nor hate - And foreign fury desolate each field, - And rob the cities of their goods and gold; - Nor of Italian skill - The works divine to wretched thraldom led - Beyond the Alpine snows; nor cannons wield - Their ponderous weight along the grief-thronged road; - Nor stern commands, nor haughty rule for ill; - Nor didst thou hear the insults and the dread - Abuse of Freedom's name, which seemed to goad - Our grief, while lashes did resound and chains. - Who did not grieve? What did we not endure? - What region ne'er complains - Of how those recreants sinned? What temple was secure? - Why in such evil times did we appear? - Why didst thou give us birth, O cruel fate? - Or why not early death? - Enslaved and subject is our land so dear - To strangers and blasphemers; all her pride - Is fallen and desolate; - No succour and no comfort can we see; - All balm to ease the pain - That gives her keenest anguish, is denied; - No solace can our bitter quest perceive. - Alas! our life blood we gave not to thee, - Land, dear to us in vain! - Nor have I perished; though for thee I grieve. - Here wrath and pity in all hearts abound: - Full many of our number fought and bled: - Alas! their doom they found, - Not for our Italy, but for her tyrants dread. - O Father, if thine ire - Lies dormant, thou art other than of yore; - Upon the barbarous plains - Of Scythia, the Italian brave expire, - Worthy of other death; the winds and skies, - The beasts and men wage on them cruel war. - In mighty hosts they fell, - Naked and wasted, and with gore besmeared. - For their dire bed the fatal snowstorm lies. - Then as they felt their last, expiring pain, - To her with whom their deep affections dwell, - They said: "Oh, not the clouds or winds that reared - Their deadly force, but steel, and for thy gain, - Should end our lives, dear country! From thee far, - When fairest years begin to meet our gaze, - We, who all unknown are, - Perish for that dire race which fetters thee and slays." - For their lament the Arctic desert bleak - Felt pity, and the moaning forests old. - Thus did they meet their end, - And wild beasts their neglected bodies seek - Upon that horrid ocean of deep snow, - Devouring their limbs cold; - And the renown of the sublime and brave - Shall lie with those for aye - Whom tardy vileness claimeth. Though your woe - Be infinite, ye cherished souls so dear! - Yet be at peace; and this console your grave, - That consolation's ray - Shall neither now nor in a future year - Be seen by you. Rest in your sorrow vast, - O ye true sons of her to whose supreme - Misfortunes unsurpassed, - Yours only is so great it can their equal seem! - Ah! not of you complains - Your native land, but of the one who made - Your weapons 'gainst her rise, - So that for evermore she mourns her pains, - And with your sorrows bids her own resound. - Oh! would for her, whom once Renown arrayed, - Fair Pity's light were shed - In such a heart as could to her be sent - To raise her from the dark abyss profound - Where she is lying! O! thou glorious Bard! - Say, of thine Italy if love be dead? - Say, if the flame that fired thee now be spent? - Say, shall no more that wreath its verdure guard - Wherewith we did so long our ills beguile? - Lie all our crowns now shattered in the dust? - Nor in a little while - Shall men arise like thee so generous and just? - Are we for ever withered? And our shame - No boundaries can hold? - I, whilst I live, shall everywhere exclaim:-- - "Thou evil race, turn to thine ancestors; - Survey these ruins old, - And all the treasures wondrous arts bestow: - Think on what soil thou treadest; if thy heart - Feels not the light such high examples show, - Why stay? Rise and depart. - To be the scene of deeds so mean and fell, - This land of mighty heroes was not made: - If cravens here must dwell, - 'Twere better it should be deserted and betrayed." - - - - - TO ANGELO MAI - - - On His Discovering the Books of Cicero on the - Republic. - - Dauntless Italian! why dost thou not rest - From waking in the tomb - Our old forefathers? And why bid them hold - Discourse unto this age so lost in gloom - Of worn exhaustion? Wherefore, voice of old, - Appealest thou so often to our ears, - For centuries though dumb? - What is the reason of this mighty change? - As rapidly as lightning's flash, the page - Of sages we discover; to these years - The dusty treasures come, - Bearing enshrined the glorious wisdom's range - Of those ancestral minds. What daring rage - Doth Fate give to thy soul, Italia's pride? - Or is it Fate who vainly human worth defied? - Truly, it is by Heaven's high design - That in this hour when we - Are most oblivious of our old renown, - We should the ghosts of our forefathers see, - Who on the baseness of their offspring frown. - Kind Heaven still has mercy on our land, - And seeks Italia's weal: - For either this or none must be the hour - To give unto our shattered virtue strength, - Which long beneath a sable shade did stand; - And lo! the tombs reveal - The buried who cry out; in mightier power, - The long-forgotten heroes rise at length, - And of this period so remote they ask - If thou, my country, still must wear a coward's mask? - Thou glorious throng! dost thou for us yet cherish - A ray of hope? nor void - Are we of worth? To you, perchance, doth show - The future what it brings? I am destroyed, - Nor have I any weapon 'gainst my woe; - Dark are the years to come; and what I see - Is such that hope appears - An idle dream. Heroic souls august! - Within your homes a mob obscure and vile - Hath made its dwelling; by your progeny - In these disastrous years - All good is scorned; your old renown so just - Kindles nor love nor shame; and follies while - Our days away at your proud marble's base, - And we to future times are patterns of disgrace. - Thou noble mind! Now whilst the others heed not - Our parents of the past, - 'Tis thine to heed, to whom Fate did inspire - Such favoured thoughts that by thy hand recast - Appears the time[1] when from oblivion dire - Their laurelled brows the old immortals raised, - With learning long enshrined, - They, to whom Nature spoke full many a word - Without revealing where her being lay, - And who in Athens and in Rome were praised. - Oh times, so long declined - In sleep eternal! Then was not yet heard - Our country's final doom; nor every ray - Was spent of indignation at our shame, - And on the wind some sparks from this our soil yet came. - Thy hallowed ashes harboured latent heat, - Foe, nevermore resigned, - Of Fortune, thou to whose indignant smart - Much more dark Hell than this our world was kind;[2] - Hell: and where shall we fail to see a part - Better than ours? And thy sweet-toned chords - Yet sounded to thy skill, - O tuneful lover, in thy love much tried![3] - Alas! from woe Italian song doth take - Its origin. And yet our woe affords - Less cause for grievous ill - Than weariness. O thou beatified, - Whose life was full of sorrow! But we make - Ourselves the prey of drear, fastidious scorn, - Our cradles and our graves thereby become forlorn. - Then was thy life with the ocean and the stars. - Thou dauntless Genoese![4] - When past Alcides' pillars and the shore - That feigned to hear the hissing of the seas - As sank the sun to rest, thou, 'mid the roar - Of wild waves cast, discoveredst the ray - Of the declining sun, - The dawn that blushes when we find the shade, - And overcamest Nature's wrathful frown. - An unknown mighty land was to thy way - The matchless glory won, - The perilous return! Alas! once made - The circuit of the world, it dwindles down, - And vaster far the earth, the sea, the sky, - Appeareth to a child's, than to a wise man's, eye. - Where is the pleasing beauty of our dreams - Of the abode unknown - Of races strange, or of the stars' retreat, - When glared the morn, or of the couch where shone - Aurora's beauty, or where chargers fleet - Did bear the chariot of the orb of day? - They vanished for all time! - The world is compassed in a narrow round: - All things are like; the more we shades dispel, - The more the void increaseth. Gone for aye, - Imagining sublime, - Art thou from us; though truth be scarcely found, - We bid thee an eternal fare-thee-well; - Thy former power is shattered by the years, - And the last comfort dieth of our woes and fears. - Meanwhile, for sweetest visions wast thou born, - And radiance fired thine eyes, - Prevailing bard[5] of valour and love's joy - That in an age less full than ours of sighs - With happy errors banished life's annoy: - New hope of Italy! O halls! O towers! - O ladies fair! O knights! - O palaces! O gardens! Full of ye, - My mind is lost within a varied maze - Of vain enchantments. Fiction's fragrant flowers - And Fancy's daring flights - Were balm of yore to human misery: - Now we have driven them from our vision's gaze, - What is the end? Now that all things are plain? - The certain truth to know that all, save grief, is vain. - Torquato! O Torquato![6] Heaven then gave - To us thy lofty mind, - To thee nought else than agony and tears. - O thou unblessed Torquato! couldst thou find - Solace in song? The icy chill of fears - That froze the daring ardour of thy soul, - Which Tyranny did grieve, - And Envy, nought could banish. Love betrayed, - Love, last delusion of our earthly life, - Thy injured heart. An empty waste the whole - Vast world thou didst conceive - To be, and Vacancy a queenly shade; - Thine eyes were closed when tardy praise was rife. - To thee thy final hour gave balm. He prays - For death, who knows our ills, and not for glorious bays. - Return, return to us; arise from thy - Cold grave disconsolate, - If yet thou lovest grief, O much deplored - Example of deep woe. Worse is our fate - Than that which did unto thy heart afford - Such cause for long lament. O thou endeared! - Who would thy doom bemoan, - If, save themselves, for nothing else men care? - Who would not scorn on thy great sorrow cast, - If all that greatness and ambition reared - Be held as Folly's own? - If now obscure neglect fall to the share - Of the sublime, as envy in the past, - If higher than song we sordid grasping place, - Who would a second time thy brow with laurels grace? - From thee, until this hour, no man arose, - Thou prey to Fortune's rage, - Worthy of the Italian name, save one alone,[7] - Alone superior to his craven age, - Ferocious Allobrogue; to whom was shown - Heroic fire from regions of the skies, - Not from the barren soil - Of this our weary land; whence, without shield, - Upon the stage on tyrants he waged war, - A memorable and a rare emprise! - This war, at least, be foil - To fruitless wrath, and some frail comfort yield. - He stood, the only champion, to the fore: - None followed him, for sloth and silence vile, - More than all other things, the hearts of men defile. - With scorn and indignation he pursued - His life august and grand, - And death preserved him from beholding worse. - O my Vittorio! this was not a land - Or age for thee; a loftier race should nurse - Illustrious minds. Now we, who nothing heed - Save dull repose, live bound - By mediocrity; the learned fall, - The rabble rises to an equal plain, - Making the world as one. Oh, still proceed, - Discoverer renowned, - To rouse the dead from their funereal pall, - Because the living slumber; make again - Old heroes speak, so that this age at last - May rise to glorious deeds, or blush for errors past. - - - [Footnote 1: The Renaissance.] - - [Footnote 2: Dante.] - - [Footnote 3: Petrarch.] - - [Footnote 4: Columbus.] - - [Footnote 5: Ariosto.] - - [Footnote 6: Tasso.] - - [Footnote 7: Alfieri.] - - - - - ON THE MARRIAGE OF HIS SISTER PAOLINA. - - - Now that thy home thou leavest, - Its happy silence and serene repose, - And the ancient error which from Heaven flows, - Adorning in thy sight this lone abode, - By Fortune led upon the scene of life: - Become acquainted with the evil age - Which destiny devoteth to our years, - My sister, who in times - Of strife, dismay, and fears, - Proceedest to increase the ill-starred race - Of hapless Italy. Great models place - Before thine offspring. An unswerving doom - To virtuous enterprise - Unclouded days denies, - Nor in a bosom faint can lofty soul find room. - Unhappy or else craven - Shall be thy sons. Then nobly choose the first. - A mighty gulf hath evil custom set - 'Twixt bravery and fortune. Ah! too slow, - And in the sunset of terrestrial things, - Doth man begin to suffer and to know. - Heaven see'th why. The thought unto thee brings - Its first solicitude, - That not in Fortune's net - Thy sons shall fall, nor be to terror low, - Or hope the wretched tools: thence to be hailed - Happy and blessed in the future far: - For such the habits are - Of our ignoble race, - That living worth we scorn, and dead in honour place. - Our fatherland, O women! - Expecteth much from ye; and not to harm - Our humankind, lurks in your eyes such charm - That it transcends the power of fire and steel. - To gain your praise, the warrior and the sage - Labour and think. Where'er the sun doth shine, - We see all things your mighty influence feel. - Of you the cause I ask - Why sank so low our age? - Did by your deed the fire of youth divine - Languish and die? By you, our nature made - So shattered and so base? Our slumbering souls, - Our will to shame betrayed, - Our native valour spent: - Must we for these on you our indignation vent? - Love leads to mighty actions, - Who knows him well; and of emotions vast - Is Beauty the inspirer. Void of love - Is he who feeleth no impassioned fire - When storms terrific raise their wrathful blast, - When sable clouds are darkly seen above, - And mountains tremble at their frenzy dire. - O wives and virgins fair! - From you scorn be his share - Who shuns the path of danger; who ignores - His country's claim, unworthy; who adores - A lowly idol in his recreant mind; - If in your hearts you find - The love of men doth glow - And not of those who ever trivial fancy show. - Scorn to be named the mothers - Of an unwarlike race. The trials deep - Of virtue let your offspring learn to bear, - And in the bondage of contempt to keep - Whate'er is honoured by this shameful age. - Bid them rise to great actions. Make them know - What this our land doth to its fathers owe. - Even as the heroes' name - Was held in honoured fame - By Sparta's sons as they increased in years, - Until their spouses girded on their sword, - And then their death in anguish deep deplored, - And rent their hair with tears - When from the gory field - The warrior was brought home upon his faithful shield. - With heavenly skill, Virginia, - Did all-prevailing beauty mould thy form, - And thy disdain made Rome's ignoble lord - In tempests of fierce passion rage and storm. - Yes, thou wast fair, and in those happy years - When pleasing dreams joy to the soul afford, - What time thy father's unrelenting sword - Thy snowy bosom pierced, - And thou to Hades dark - Didst gladly sink. "May age with wrinkles mark - My features, O my father! May the tomb - Await me with its everlasting gloom, - Ere to the tyrant's bed - A victim I be led. - Slay me, if Rome be rescued by the blood I shed." - O maiden lofty-hearted! - Though in thy days the sun more brightly shone - Than now it shines, yet honoured and consoled - Thy tomb becomes, bewailed by many a moan, - Thy native country's sighs. Ah, now, behold! - The race of Romulus with new-born ire - Is fired around thy tomb. See, tyrants sink - Unto the very dust, - And freedom doth inspire - The once oblivious hearts; and o'er the earth - Subdued, the Latin valour doth proceed - From the dark pole even to the torrid clime: - And thus eternal Rome, - Of languor deep the home, - Doth Fate, by woman's hand, revive a second time. - - - - - THE SOLILOQUY OF BRUTUS. - - - After the carnage of the Thracian plain, - Where in vast ruins fell - The strength of Roman freedom, whence one day - Ausonia's valleys and the Tiber's banks - Should tremble at barbarian foes' affray - By Fortune's doom, and from the rugged woods - Of distant regions cold, - To desolate the lofty walls of Rome - Should Gothic hordes proceed: - O'ercome and crimsoned with fraternal gore, - Brutus, in shadow of the lonely night, - Resolved by self-directed sword to bleed, - The inexorable Gods - And cruel fate defies, - Filling in vain the air with his impassioned cries: - "O idle virtue! In the realms of gloom, - Haunt of the unquiet shades, - Thy dwelling lies; thy footsteps are pursued - By vain repentance. Ye unfeeling Gods, - (If Phlegethon's dark torrents are imbued - With knowledge of your presence, or the skies) - You mock the wretched race - From whom you temples claim. Decrees of fraud - Insult our humankind. - So much the sorrow of terrestrial things - Moves heavenly wrath? Say, Jupiter, art thou - Enthroned the guardian of the evil mind? - When storms terrific rave - And thunder rumbles wide, - Dost on the just and pious thou the lightning guide? - "Unbending Fate! Necessity austere - Crushes with heavy yoke - The slaves of death; and if without an end - They see their ills, the thought consoles them still - That such must be. But doth woe less offend - When without balm? Doth he feel less of pain - Who is despoiled of hope? - An everlasting war, O ruthless Fate! - On thee the brave man wages - Who knows not how to yield; thy tyrant soul, - When thou, victorious, overwhelmest him, - With exultation o'er thy victim rages, - What time his heart august - The fatal sword receives, - And he with mockery spurns the base abode he leaves. - "He who to Hades takes a violent way - Doth rouse the gods to ire. - Such strength lies not in soft, eternal souls. - Stern Fate, perchance, our labours and our cares, - Our bitter fortunes that Despair controls, - Unto their leisure for amusement gave? - Not amid woe and guilt, - But in the woods, a free and spotless age - Did Nature to us give, - Our Goddess once and Queen. Now that undone - By impious custom is the blissful reign, - And 'neath strange laws we unrejoicing live: - When these disastrous days - A dauntless soul doth spurn, - Should Nature, to accuse a shaft not hers, return? - "Of guilt unconscious and of their distress, - The happy beasts are led - By Time serenely to the end ignored. - But if 'gainst rugged trees their heads to strike, - Or from the summit, where the wild winds roared, - Of rocky mountains to hurl down their frame, - They were by grief advised: - To their desire no stern refusal harsh - Would laws mysterious make - Or doubtful minds. Its joys from you alone - Of all the creatures by the earth brought forth, - Sons of Prometheus, did existence take: - From you the shades of death, - When Fate of wrath gives proof, - Alone from you, ye wretched, Jove doth hold aloof. - "Thou art arising from the ocean-wave - That reddened with our gore, - To gaze, fair moon, on the unquiet night - And plain so fatal to Ausonian strength. - Their slaughtered kinsmen meet the conquerors' sight; - The mountains tremble; from her pride's august - Doth ancient Rome decline: - And thou art so unmoved? Thou didst behold - Lavinia's race, the years - Of dazzling glory, and the laurels proud; - And on the Alps thy never-varying ray - Thou still wilt shed when 'mid the grief and tears - Of Italy enslaved, - Her solitary ground - Unto barbarians' tread shall mournfully resound. - "'Mid naked rocks, or on the verdant trees, - Behold, the beasts and birds, - Lost in the oblivion they forever bore, - Remain unconscious of the ruin Vast - And of the shattered world; and as of yore - The peasant's roof shall redden to the sun, - And with their morning lay - The birds awake the valleys, and the speed - Of fiercer beasts pursue - The less resisting over hill and dale. - Oh Fate! Oh idle race! an abject part - We are of nature; not the caves that knew - The sound of sighs, nor glebes - Drenched in our gore, display - Compassion for our grief, nor stars endim their ray. - "The unheeding Kings of Heaven and Hell - Or of the unworthy earth, - Or night, in dying I do not invoke; - Nor ye, last radiance of the shades of death, - Ye future ages. Who the gloom e'er broke - Of haughty tombs, with praise, and sighs, and gifts - Of crowds ignoble? Worse - The years become; and in an evil guard - The honour of the brave - And their last vindication lies, when left - To their degenerate sons. Upon my corpse - May birds of prey in famished fury rave, - And wild beasts rend my limbs, - And what remains be dust, - And to the air be left my name and memory just." - - - - - TO SPRING; - - OR, - - THE FABLES OF ANTIQUITY. - - - Because the sun restores - Its beauty to the sky, and airs revive - At Zephyr's breath, whence heavy clouds retire, - Divided in their shadows deep and grey: - The birds their pinions trust - Unto the breeze, and the diurnal ray - Doth give new hope of love and new desire - To happy beasts amid the dews dissolved, - Amid the forests filled with joyous light: - Perchance unto the weary minds of men, - In graves of woe entombed, - Returns the happy age, by grief and dire - Torches of truth consumed - Before its time? Darkened for aye and spent - Are not Heaven's rays for him to anguish doomed - Through Time's eternal flight? - And, odorous Spring, art thou on firing bent, - This frozen heart, to whom hath long been told - Even in the flower of life, that it is worn and old? - Dost thou still live, divine - Nature, still live? And the unaccustomed ear - Receives the sound of the maternal voice? - The streams were haunts of spotless nymphs erewhile - Abodes and mirrors clear - Were liquid springs. The secret dances strange - Of feet immortal, shook the wild ravine - And wood remote (where now the fierce winds range, - Deserted else); and the mild shepherd heard, - When guiding to meridian shades beside - The flowery river bank, - His thirsty flock, a piercing lay proceed - From sylvan deities' reed, - Resounding far: and witnessed with amaze - The waters quake; for veiled from mortal gaze, - The Goddess of the bow - Sank in the warm stream of the flood below, - And from the dust of the ensanguined chase - Her snowy limbs did cleanse and arms of virgin grace. - In happier days of yore - The flowers, the herbs, the forests were alive. - The firmament, the Titan of the light, - Were conscious of mankind; o'er hill and vale - When shone thy silver beam, - O radiant Cynthia! in the lonely night - With orbs intent thy brow the wanderer sought, - And thee his path's companion he did deem, - And fancied we were cherished in thy thought. - If man from factions of fierce cities fled - And from disastrous strife, - Seeking for refuge mid the mighty trees - Of deepest forest lone: - He thought that fire ran through their arid veins, - That foliage breathed; and quivering in the embrace - Full of delicious pains, - Daphne and Phyllis, or the wailing moan - For him who in Eridanus was cast - By fury of the Sun, he heard upon the blast. - Nor piercing wail and sighs - Of human woe, ye rocks of rigid height, - Struck you, unfeeling, whilst lone Echo dwelt - In your recesses of alarming night: - No error of vain wind, - But wretched spirit of a nymph in tears, - Of mortal shape despoiled by ruthless Fate - And cruel Love. She, 'mid the grottos blind - And naked crags and dwellings desolate, - The loud complaining of our woes and fears - To the imprisoned air - Revealed and taught. And thee in earthly deed - Well versed did Fame declare, - Sweet-throated warbler in the leafy wood - Who now dost praise the infant year with song, - Lamenting once the wrong - That made thy spirit with deep anguish bleed, - In notes sublime unto the darkening sky, - At which for pity and rage light did from Heaven fly. - But not to ours allied - Is now thy race; those varied notes of thine - Pain mellows not; and thee, unstained by guilt, - Much less endeared, the dusky valleys hide. - Alas! now that divine - Olympus mourns its empty halls; and wide - The thunder wanders o'er the cloud-capped peaks, - In sightless rage the noble and the base - Appalling with its rumbling; and our soil, - Unconscious of the offspring it doth feed, - Brings forth its sons for moyle: - Thou the deep anguish and the fate obscure - Of mortals dost endure, - O wondrous Nature! Thou the ancient spark - Art kindling in my soul, if thou indeed - Livest; if aught there be - In Heaven above, or on the sunny earth, - Or in the bosom of the azure main, - To gaze, even though unpitying, on terrestrial pain. - - - - - HYMN TO THE PATRIARCHS. - - - And you the song of unrejoicing sons, - Ye lofty fathers of the human race, - Shall celebrate with praise; ye far more dear - Unto the eternal Ruler of the stars, - And much less sorrowing brought unto the light - Sublime than we. Not piety and not - The laws of Heaven imposed the unceasing ills - That now afflict mankind, for sorrow born, - And destined to discover greater joy - In the nocturnal shadows of the tomb - Than in the radiance of the orb of day. - And if an ancient legend still doth tell - The story of your ancient error dire - That yielded man unto the tyranny - Of suffering and grief; the guilt more fell, - The more unquiet minds and frenzy fierce - Of your descendants made the injured skies - And Nature, in return for all her cares - Spumed and neglected, feel indignant wrath: - From which the fire of life a curse received, - And mothers trembled at the load they bore, - And Hell itself was imaged on the earth. - - Thou first, O father of the human race, - Didst see the sparkling of revolving spheres, - The new-born generations of the fields, - The breezes roving o'er the infant trees, - When towering rocks and yet unpeopled vales - Heard for the first time Alpine fury sound - Of rushing torrents; when unconscious Peace - Reigned o'er the destined regions of renowned - Nations and cities full of strife and noise; - And when upon uncultivated hills - Silent and lonely did the radiance shine - Of sun and moon. Oh happy then, ignoring - Events disastrous and the name of guilt, - The vast abode of earth! Oh, how much grief - Unto thy race, thou Father full of sorrow! - How long a series of most bitter deeds - The Fates prepare! The soil, behold! is stained - With deepest crimson of a brother's blood, - By brother shed, and o'er the sky divine - The wings of Death their evil shadow throw. - The fratricide with horror taketh flight, - Shunning the lonely dimness of the shades - And secret wrath of winds in forest deep; - He is the first to build proud towns, henceforth - Domain and dwelling of Care's pallid form; - And first Remorse despairing fixeth man - In a pent-up and undelightful home. - Then from the plough the guilty hand was ta'en, - And scorn was cast on labours of the field, - And the evil halls became the home of sloth. - All minds lay languid and of strength bereft - In weary frames; and as the last and worst - Of ills, mankind by slavery was bound. - - And thou from pouring skies and rolling seas - That lashed the summits of the cloudy peaks, - Didst save the germ of the ill-fated race, - O thou to whom from sable space of air - And from the mountains floating in the deep, - A sign of hope restored by snowy dove - Was brought; and from the ancient clouds emerging, - The troubled sun upon the skies obscure - Painted the bow of many beauteous hues. - The rescued race returns unto the earth, - Renewing evil deeds and ruthless thoughts - And their pursuing terrors. To the reign - Of oceans inaccessible it shows - Its vengeful might, and beareth tears and grief - To stars unknown and to remotest shores. - - Now thee within my heart I meditate, - And of thy race the generous descendants, - Thou just and valourous father of the pious! - I shall relate how, seated in the calm - Meridian shadows of a quiet home, - Beside the meads so dear unto thy flocks, - Thy soul was blest by strangers from the Heavens - Ethereal and disguised; and how, O son - Of wise Rebecca! in the evening hour - Beside the rustic well and in the vale - Of Haran, cherished by the gentle shepherds - In their gay leisure, love inspired thy heart - For Laban's beauteous daughter: love supreme, - Who to long exile and affliction long, - And to the hated yoke of servitude, - Made many a soul of haughty strength submit. - - Once, truly once (nor with mere shadows idle - Aonian song and legendary lore - Delude mankind), this globe of ours benign - And dear and pleasant to our race appeared, - And golden was the tenour of our age. - Not that with milk the fertile springs rushed forth, - And from the mountains to the valleys spread; - Nor with the flocks the tiger did resort - In happy peace; nor with the wolves the shepherd - Proceeded gaily to the crystal fount; - But that our humankind lived without grief, - Unconscious of the fate that o'er it hung, - And of the woes impending; the sweet error, - The fond delusions, and the pleasing veil - Across the laws of Heaven and Nature thrown, - Were all sufficient; and our quiet bark - Was led into the haven of calm Hope. - - Thus, in the boundless forests of the West - Liveth a happy race, whom pallid Care - Pursueth not, whose members are not wasted - By dire disease; to whom the trees yield fruit; - Abode, the caverns kind; refreshing drink, - The rivulets and brooks; and as her prey - Death claims them unforeseen. Alas! 'gainst our - Unhallowed daring, how defenceless are - The haunts of Nature wise! our dauntless fury - Doth penetrate the shores and caves remote - And quiet forests, teaching the despoiled - Desires and sorrows which they never knew, - And hunting Happiness, aghast and naked, - Even to the splendours of the setting sun. - - - - - THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. - - - Thou peaceful night, thou chaste and silver ray - Of the declining Moon; and thou, arising - Amid the quiet forest on the rocks, - Herald of day: O cherished and endeared, - Whilst Fate and doom were to my knowledge closed, - Objects of sight! No lovely land or sky - Doth longer gladden my despairing mood. - By unaccustomed joy we are revived - When o'er the liquid spaces of the Heavens - And o'er the fields alarmed doth wildly whirl - The tempest of the winds; and when the car, - The ponderous car of Jove, above our heads - Thundering, divides the heavy air obscure. - O'er mountain peaks and o'er abysses deep - We love to float amid the swiftest clouds; - We love the terror of the herds dispersed, - The streams that flood the plain, - And the victorious, thunderous fury of the main. - - Fair is thy sight, O sky divine, and fair - Art thou, O dewy earth! Alas, of all - This beauty infinite, no slightest part - To wretched Sappho did the Gods or Fate - Inexorable give. Unto thy reign - Superb, O Nature, an unwelcome guest - And a disprized adorer, doth my heart - And do mine eyes implore thy lovely forms; - But all in vain. The sunny land around - Smiles not for me, nor from ethereal gates - The blush of early dawn; not me the songs - Of brilliant feathered birds, not me the trees - Salute with murmuring leaves; and where in shade - Of drooping willows doth a liquid stream - Display its pure and crystal course, from my - Advancing foot the soft and flowing waves - Withdrawing with affright, - Disdainfully it takes through flowery dell its flight. - - What fault so great, what guiltiness so dire, - Did blight me ere my birth, that adverse grew - To me the brow of fortune and the sky? - How did I sin, a child, when ignorant - Of wickedness is life, that from that time - Despoiled of youth, and of its fairest flowers, - The cruel Fates wove with relentless wrath - The web of my existence? Reckless words - Rise on thy lips; the events that are to be, - A secret council guides. Secret is all, - Our agony excepted. We were born, - Neglected race, for tears; the reason lies - Amid the gods on high. Oh cares and hopes - Of early years! To beauty did the Sire, - To glorious beauty an eternal reign - Give o'er this humankind; for warlike deed - For learned lyre or song, - In unadorned shape, no charms to fame belong. - - Ah, let us die! The unworthy garb divested, - The naked soul will take to Dis its flight, - And expiate the cruel fault of blind - Dispensers of our lot. And thou, for whom - Long love in vain, long faith and fruitless rage - Of unappeased desire assailed my heart, - Live happily, if happily on earth - A mortal yet hath lived. Not me did Jove - Sprinkle with the delightful liquor from - The niggard urn, since of my childhood died - The dreams and fond delusions. The glad days - Of our existence are the first to fly; - And then disease and age approach, and last, - The shade of frigid Death. Behold! of all - The palms I hoped for, and the errors sweet, - Hades remains; and the transcendent mind - Sinks to the Stygian shore - Where sable night doth reign, and silence evermore. - - - - - THE FIRST LOVE. - - - The day once more within my memory lives - When first I felt the affray of Love, and said: - "Ah me, if this be Love, what pangs he gives!" - Unto the earth I bent mine eyes and head, - Beholding her from whom my heart did learn - The first and stainless passion whence it bled. - Love, to dire goal thou didst my fancy turn! - Why should so tender an affection sting - With such desire, such agonies that burn? - Why not serene, and with unfettered wing, - Why full of frenzy and of loud lament - Into my heart didst thou thy joyaunce bring? - Tell me, my tender heart, what terror sent - A shaft through thee, what anguish 'mid the thought, - Beside which paled whate'er was once content? - That thought by day with flattering pleasure fraught. - By night as well, unto my mind appeared, - When worlds the silence of deep shadows sought. - Restless, yet happy, though to grief endeared, - Thou on my pillows didst alarm my frame - With palpitations, every minute feared. - And where I sad and grieved and weary came - To close mine eyes in slumber, feverish fire - And frenzy roused me, sleep could never tame. - How 'mid the shades, the queen of my desire - Uprose with vivid splendour, and mine eyes - Gazed on her closed, the lids not rising higher! - How many a thrill of sweet emotion flies - Through my glad frame which joyous ardours seize! - How many thoughts within my soul arise, - Uncertain, undefined! Thus 'mid the trees - Of ancient forests doth a murmur sound, - Vague, deep of tone, in answer to the breeze. - And whilst in silence all my thoughts were bound, - What said'st thou, heart, when she went far away, - For whom a world of passion thou hadst found? - I scarce within me felt the heat a day, - Arising from Love's furnace, when the air - Whereon it came, to scenes remote did stray. - At early dawn I lay in sleepless care; - Before our house the horses pranced, ere long - To make me of my only joyaunce bare! - And I, to whom misgivings vague belong, - These orbs did idly in the shadows strain, - And forced my hearing with an effort strong - To catch the voice, last token I could gain - From the fair lips of her whom I revere: - All else, alas! hath Heaven from me ta'en. - How many a time struck on my doubtful ear - Plebean cries and accents, and I froze - In all my frame, my heart appalled with fear! - And when at last within my heart I close - The voice so well beloved, and hear the race - Of wheels and horses as the carriage goes: - Knowing myself despoiled, I hide my face, - And shut mine eyes, and sink upon my bed, - And sigh, and on my heart my hand I place. - After a while with wavering limbs I tread - As one amazed, along the silent room, - And "What power else hath struck my heart?" I said. - Then the remembrance with most bitter gloom - Settled within my bosom; and my soul - Became to all the scenes of life a tomb, - And seas of anguish through my being roll, - And I did feel as when the torrents drear - Pour from the clouds, and shades o'ercast the whole - Space of the sky; nor born for many a tear, - Knew I the youth of vanished years twice nine, - When, Love, thou first didst in full power appear, - When for all pleasure scorn alone was mine, - Nor dear the quiet dawn or meadows green - Or joyous radiance of the stars that shine. - The love of glory was no more the queen - Of this my soul, which it before did burn, - For love of beauty reigned there all serene. - To wonted studies no more thoughts I turn, - And those unto my fancy idle seem - For which all other thoughts I used to spurn. - Ah! I myself another self must deem - That so much love another love hath ta'en! - We are, in truth, vain as an empty dream! - Only my heart did please me, and we twain - In an eternal dialogue immersed, - I loved to sit, the guardian of my pain. - Mine eyes bent on the ground or else inversed - Within myself, on lovely face to gaze - Or on a form unpleasing, never durst: - For the unspotted image to erase - That dwelt within my bosom, much I feared, - As calm lakes ruffle when the zephyr plays. - And the remorse that not enough I cheered - My heart with joy, a thought so full of pain - That pleasures past it maketh unendeared, - Rankled within me in the days that wane, - For shame could not my cloudless soul appal, - Nor hue of indignation my brow stain. - To Heaven, to you, ye gentle lovers all, - I swear no evil will did in me strive, - None could my fire base and ignoble call. - That fire yet lives, my love is yet alive, - Still in my thought the beauteous image reigns, - Whence other joys than from the skies derive, - I never felt; enough content remains. - - - - - THE LONELY BIRD.[8] - - - Upon the summit of the ancient tower - Unto the land around, thou, lonely bird, - Carollest sweetly till the evening hour, - And through the vale thy melody is heard. - Spring makes the gentle air - Fragrant and bright, and animates the fields, - Bidding the gazer in his heart rejoice. - Hark to the lowing herds, the flocks that bleat, - The other birds that full of joyaunce sing - And in the air in happy circles meet, - As though they homage to their fair time bring. - Thou, full of thought, beholdest all aside, - Nor carest to take wing - With thy companions, scorning their delight. - Thou singest, and the flower - Of spring thus fadeth with thy life's sweet hour. - - Ah me! how like to thine - My habit doth appear! Pleasure and mirth, - The happy offspring of our earlier age, - And thou, Youth's brother, Love, - Thou bitter sigh of our advancing years. - I heed not; why, I cannot tell; but far - From them I take my way; - And like a hermit lone, - Nor to my birthplace known, - I see the spring of my existence die. - This day that now is yielding to the night. - Was in our hamlet ever festive held. - Upon the air serene the bells resound - And frequent firing of the distant guns, - Arousing the deep echoes far and wide. - In festival attire - The youths and maidens go, - Leaving their homes, upon the country paths, - Rejoicing to be seen and to admire. - I to this tower, remote - From sight of men, repairing all alone, - All joy and mirth postpone - For other times; and as I gaze on high, - The sun doth strike mine eye; - Beyond the summit of yon mountain far, - After the day serene, - He sinketh to his rest, and seems to say - That happy youth is leaving me for aye. - - Thou, lonely warbler, coming to the close - Of what the stars have granted thee to live, - In truth of these thy ways - Shalt not complain, for Nature on thee lays - Thy fondness of repose. - To me, if of old age - The dreaded terrors stern - I cannot from me turn, - When to no heart this soul of mine can yearn, - When void the earth will be, the future day - More than the present, wearisome and grey: - How will this lone mood seem? - What shall I of myself in past years deem? - Ah me! repent too late, - And often gaze behind disconsolate. - - - [Footnote 8: i.e. "Passero Solitario" a bird very common in Italy, shy, - and of lonely habits, with dark blue feathers on its breast. Its voice - is most melodious.] - - - - - - THE INFINITE. - - - I always loved this solitary hill - And this green hedge that hides on every side - The last and dim horizon from our view. - But as I sit and gaze, a never-ending - Space far beyond it and unearthly silence - And deepest quiet to my thought I picture, - And as with terror is my heart o'ercast - With wondrous awe. And while I hear the wind - Amid the green leaves rustling, I compare - That silence infinite unto this sound, - And to my mind eternity occurs, - And all the vanished ages, and the present; - Whose sound doth meet mine ear. And so in this - Immensity my thought is drifted on, - And to be wrecked on such a sea is sweet. - - - - - THE HOLIDAY NIGHT. - - - The night is fair, without a breath of wind, - And on the roofs and gardens full of peace - The moon reposes and reveals afar - Each mountain all serene. O my beloved! - The haunts of men are silent; in their homes - Rarely doth glimmer a nocturnal lamp. - Thou art asleep, by gentle slumber wrapped - Within thy quiet room; no carking care - Disturbs thy rest; nor dost thou know or think - How deep a wound thou openedst in my heart. - Thou art asleep; I sally forth to greet - The firmament, to gaze on so benign, - And Nature, mighty in her ancient ways, - Who made me but for woe. "To thee be hope - Denied," she said, "even hope; and in thine eyes - No other light, save that of tears, may shine." - This day was full of pleasure; from thy pastime - Thou now dost take repose: perchance in dreams - Those who pleased thee and whom thyself did please, - Thou seest; but not I, for all my hopes, - Occur unto thy fancy. I, meanwhile, - I ask myself how much of life remains - For me to live, and here upon the earth, - Moaning and shuddering, do I throw me down - In utter desolation. O ye days - So full of horror for such early years! - Ah, woe is me! Upon the road not far - I hear a workman's solitary song; - After his joyaunce, in late hours of night - He is returning to his poor abode; - And bitterly my heart is rent in twain - When I consider all on earth doth pass - And leaveth not a trace. Behold! the day - Of joy is gone, and to its festive hours - The day of toil succeeds, and time doth take - Whate'er belongs to man. Where, where is now - The pride of ancient nations? Where the fame - Of our renowned forefathers, and the vast - Dominion of old Rome, the clash of arms - Resounding o'er the ocean and the earth? - All now is peace and silence, and the world - Is wrapped in rest, and speaks of them no more. - In those beginning years, when eagerly - We seek the festive day, I lay awake - When it was over, tossing full of grief - Upon my bed; and in late hours of night - A song I heard upon the road without, - Expiring in the distance by degrees, - With equal sorrow rent my heart in twain. - - - - - TO THE MOON. - - - O fair and gracious Moon! Well I remember - A year hath passed, since up this very hill - I came so full of anguish to behold thee: - And o'er yon forest thou didst shed thy beams, - As at this moment, filling it with light. - But veiled in mist, and tremulous with tears - That hung upon my lashes, to mine eyes - Thy radiance did appear, for dark with woe - Was then my life, and is, nor will it change, - O Moon, thou my adored! And yet I love - To bear in mind and one by one to count - The slow years of my sorrow. Oh, how sweet - It is to youth, when hope has yet a long, - And memory has but a brief, career, - To dwell in thought on things for ever past, - Though they be sad and though affliction live! - - - - - SOLITUDE. - - - When on his roost the cock begins to crow - And beat his wings; and to his work proceeds - The tiller of the soil; and on the dews - The rising sun his flashing rays doth cast: - Upon the panes the morning shower doth beat, - Awaking me from slumber with its sound: - And I arise and bless the filmy clouds, - The birds that tune their notes, the pleasant wind - And the delightful verdure of the meads: - Because, ye walls of unpropitious towns, - I've seen and known ye far too well, where Hate - Haunteth Affliction, where I sorrowing live, - And so shall die, would it were soon! At least - Some scanty pity is allowed my grief - In these abodes by Nature, once, alas! - How kinder far to me! And thou as well, - O Nature, turnest from the wretched; full - Of scorn for woe, thou payest homage vile - To Happiness, the universal queen. - In Heaven and Earth no friend for the ill-starred, - No refuge, death excepted, doth remain! - At times I seat me in a lonely spot, - Upon a hill, or by a calm lake's bank, - Fringed and adorned with flowers taciturn. - There, when full mid-day heat informs the sky, - His peaceful image doth the sun depict, - And to the air moves neither leaf nor herb, - And neither ruffling wave nor cricket shrill, - Nor birds disporting in the boughs above, - Nor fluttering butterfly, nor voice nor step - Afar or near, can sight or hearing find. - Those shores are held in deepest quietude: - Whence I the world and even myself forget, - Seated unmoved; and it appears to me - My body is released, no longer worn - With soul or feeling, and its old repose - Is blended with the silence all around. - O fleeting Love! full many a day is gone - Since from my bosom thou hast ta'en thy flight, - Though fired of yore by most impassioned zeal. - It hath been blighted by the frigid hand - Of cold misfortune, and is turned to ice - Even in the time when it should blossom forth. - The period I remember when thou first - Didst hold thy court within this heart of mine. - It was the time, irrevocably sweet, - When youthful eyes are opened to the scene - Of earthly sorrow, and it smiles on them - As though it were a paradise below. - The guileless heart of youth doth gladly beat - For virgin hopes and for desires sublime; - And the deluded mortal doth prepare - For all the labours of his days to come, - As if they were a joyous festival - And gay carousah--But I scarcely saw, - Love, thine approach, than Fortune harsh destroyed - The tenour of my life, and to these eyes - Nought else was seemly than eternal tears. - But if at times along the sunny meads - In early morn, or when meridian rays - On hills and plains and houses shed their light, - I see the features of a maiden fair; - Or when in the untroubled quietude - Of Summer night my vagrant steps proceed - And guide me to the walls of near abodes, - And I behold the lonely scene, and hear - A maiden's thrilling voice, who in the hours - Of silent night accompanies her work - With joyous lay; emotion moves my heart - That seemed a stone; but it, alas! returns - Ere long to wonted gloom: a stranger now - Is every tender feeling to my soul. - O beauteous moon, unto whose tranquil ray - The forest things display their love; and in - The early dawn the hunter doth complain, - Finding their traces intricate and false, - Erroneous led astray: hail, O benign - Nocturnal Queen! Unwelcome falls thy light - In lonely wood or mountainous recess - Or ruined building empty, on the steel - Of pallid bandit, who with eager ears - Hearkens afar unto the sound of wheels - And horses' hoofs, or to the steps that tread - The quiet road; then suddenly advancing, - With clanking arms, and with a rough, rude voice. - And with death-boding looks, chills with alarm - The wanderer's heart, and leaves him on the earth - Despoiled and well-nigh dead. Unwelcome comes - Within the city precincts, thy clear light - To paramour ignoble, who doth lurk - Near walls and portals, hiding in the shade - Of secret gloom, and standing still and dreading - The lamps that through the windows pour their ray, - And peopled halls. Unwelcome to base minds, - To me benign for ever shall thy sight - Amid the regions be, where nothing else - Than happy hills and spacious fields thou showest - Unto my gaze. And even I was wont, - Though innocent my soul, to accuse thy ray - Divinely fair in scenes inhabited, - When offering me unto the sight of men, - And showing human forms unto mine eye. - Now shall I praise it ever, when I gaze - Upon thee sailing 'mid the clouds, or thou - Serenest ruler of ethereal spheres, - Art looking down upon the abode of earth. - Thou oft shalt see me, taciturn and lone, - Wandering in bowers, or through the verdant meads, - Or on the grass reclining, well content - If I have leisure from deep heart to sigh. - - - - - TO HIS LOVE. - - - Loved beauty, who afar, - Or hiding thy sweet face, - Inspirest me with amorous delight, - Unless in slumberous night, - A sacred shade my dreamy visions trace - Or when the day doth grace - Our verdant meads and fair is Nature's smile: - The age, devoid of guile, - Perchance thou blessedst, which we golden style, - And now amid the race - Of men thou fliest, light as shadows are, - Ethereal soul? Or did beguiling Fate - Bid thee, veiled from our eyes, the future times await? - To gaze on thee alive - The hope henceforth is flown, - Unless that time when naked and alone - Upon new paths unto a dwelling strange - My spirit shall proceed. When dawn did rive - The early clouds of my tempestuous day, - Methought thou wouldst upon earth's barren soil - Be the companion of mine arduous range. - But there is nought we on our globe survey - Resembling thee; and if with careful toil - We could discover any like to thee, - She would less beauteous be, - Though much of thine in face, in limb, and voice we'd see. - Amid the floods of woe - That Fate hath given to our years below, - If son of man thy beauty did adore, - Even such as I conceive it in my mind, - He would existence, so unblessed before, - Sweet and delightful find; - And clearly doth to me my spirit tell - That I to praise and glory would aspire, - As in mine early years, for love of thee. - But Heaven hath not deemed well - To grant a solace to our misery; - And linked to thee, existence would acquire - Such beauty as on high doth bless the heavenly choir. - Amid the shady vale - Where sounds the rustic song - Of the laborious tiller of the soil, - Where seated I bewail - The youthful error that was with me long, - But now doth far recoil; - And on the hills where I, remembering, weep - The lost desires and the departed hope - Of my sad days, the thought of thee doth keep - My heart from death, and gives life further scope. - Could I in this dark age and evil air, - Preserve thine image in my soul most deep, - 'Twere joy enough, for truth can never be our share. - If an eternal thought - Thou art, whom ne'er with mortal, fragile frame - Eternal Wisdom suffers to be fraught, - Or to become the prey - Of all the sorrows of death-bringing life; - Or if another globe, - Amid the innumerable worlds that flame - On high when Night displays her dusky robe, - Thy beauty doth convey; - Or star, near neighbour of the sun, doth leave - Its light on thee while gentler breezes play: - From where the days are short and dark with strife, - This hymn of an unknown adorer, oh receive! - - - - - THE REVIVAL. - - - I thought that in me utterly - In life's most fragrant flower - The sweet woes had lost power, - Born in my early years. - The sweet woes and the tenderest - Sighs of the heart profound, - All things whereby a ground - For joy in life appears. - - How many tears and murmurings - Did from my new state flow, - When I my heart of snow - Discovered void of pain! - Gone was the wonted agony, - And love I could not hold, - And this my bosom cold - Gave sighing up as vain. - - I wept that life so desolate - And waste for me was made, - The earth in gloom arrayed, - Closed in eternal frost; - The day forlorn, the taciturn - Night more obscure and lone; - For me no kind moon shone; - The stars in Heaven were lost. - - But of that grief the origin - In old affection lay; - Within my bosom's sway - My heart was still alive. - Yet for the wonted images - The weary fancy sighed; - My sorrow's boundless tide - With pain did ever strive. - - Ere long in me that agony - Of pain was wholly spent, - And further to lament - I had no courage left. - I lay all senseless and amazed, - I did not ask for balm; - As though in death's last calm, - My heart in twain was cleft. - - I was from him how different, - In whom did ardours shine, - Who errors all divine - Fed in his soul of yore! - The early swallow vigilant, - Who near the windows gay - Salutes the rising day, - Moved this my heart no more; - - Nor did the Autumn pale and sere - Where lonely I might dwell; - Nor did the evening bell; - Nor sun that sought the main. - In vain I saw bright Hesperus - Shine in celestial round, - In vain the valleys sound - With nightingale's sweet pain. - - And ye, O eyes of tenderness - And glances full of joy, - Ye, unto lovers coy - First love that never dies; - And snowy hand of whitest grace - That liest in my own; - In vain your power is shown, - My gloomy mood ne'er flies. - - Bereft of every happiness, - Sad, but not tempest-torn, - I was not all forlorn, - My brow became serene. - I should have murmured for the end - Of this my life of woe, - If in me long ago - Dead had desire not been. - - As in old age decrepitude - Makes life disprized and bare, - My years of youth most fair - Thus, thus alone were spent; - 'Twas thus the days ineffable - Thou, O my heart, didst live, - Days that short joyaunce give, - By Heaven to us lent. - - Who the obscure, inglorious - Repose bids me now miss? - What virtue new is this, - This that in me I find? - Emotions sweet, imaginings - Erroneous and sublime, - Are ye not for all time - The exiles of my mind? - - Are ye in truth the only ray - Of these my sable years, - The loves I lost with tears - In a more tender age? - Though on the sky or verdant meads - Or where I list, I gaze, - Grief doth my soul amaze, - And yet delights assuage. - - And with my musing sympathize - The plains, the woods and hills; - My heart doth hear the rills, - And murmur of the sea. - Who after such forgetfulness - Gives me the gift of tears? - How is it the earth appears - So changed and new to me? - - Perchance fair Hope, O weary heart, - Hath granted thee a smile? - Ah! Hope, so full of guile, - I'll ne'er again behold. - My fond delusions and desires - None else than Nature gave, - My native ardour brave - Grief did in bondage hold, - - Though not destroy: 'twas unsubdued - By misery and fate, - Nor did it death await - From Truth's unhallowed gaze. - To my divine imagining - I know that she is strange; - I know that Nature's range - Lies far from Mercy's ways; - - That not for weal solicitous - She is, for life alone; - She bids us live to groan, - For nothing else she cares. - I know that the unfortunate - No pity find below, - That from the sight of woe - Men hurry unawares; - - That this our age so reprobate - Scorns virtue and renown; - That glory fails to crown - The noble, learned toil. - And you, ye eyes so tremulous, - Ye glances all divine, - I know you idly shine, - And far from love recoil. - - There is no wondrous, intimate - Affection in your gaze; - No spark ere long to blaze, - Lies in that snowy breast; - For it doth mock the tenderest - Emotion and desire; - And a celestial fire - By deep scorn is distrest. - - And yet in me I feel revive - The dear illusions known: - My soul looks on its own - Sensations with surprise. - From thee, my heart, this last and fair - Spirit and inborn fire, - All comforts in my dire - Grief, but from thee arise. - - I feel my spirit is not dowered, - Though lofty, sweet, and pure, - By Nature, Fortune's lure, - The world, or loveliness: - But if thou livest, O, ill-starred, - And yieldest not to Fate, - I'll ne'er as cruel hate - Who gave me life's distress. - - - - - TO SILVIA. - - - Silvia, rememberest thou - Yet that sweet time of thine abode on earth, - When beauty graced thy brow - And fired thine eyes, so radiant and so gay; - And thou, so joyous, yet of pensive mood, - Didst pass on youth's fair way? - - The chambers calm and still, - The sunny paths around, - Did to thy song resound, - When thou, upon thy handiwork intent, - Wast seated, full of joy - At the fair future where thy hopes were bound. - It was the fragrant month of flowery May, - And thus went by thy day. - - I leaving oft behind - The labours and the vigils of my mind, - That did my life consume, - And of my being far the best entomb, - Bade from the casement of my father's house - Mine ears give heed unto thy silver song, - And to thy rapid hand - That swept with skill the spinning thread along. - I watched the sky serene, - The radiant ways and flowers, - And here the sea, the mountain there, expand. - No mortal tongue can tell - What made my bosom swell. - - What thoughts divinely sweet, - What hopes, O Silvia! and what souls were ours! - In what guise did we meet - Our destiny and life? - When I remember such aspiring flown, - Fierce pain invades my soul, - Which nothing can console, - And my misfortune I again bemoan. - O Nature, void of ruth, - Why not give some return - For those fair promises? Why full of fraud - Thy wretched offspring spurn? - - Thou ere the herbs by winter were destroyed, - Led to the grave by an unknown disease, - Didst perish, tender blossom: thy life's flower - Was not by thee enjoyed; - Nor heard, thy heart to please, - The admiration of thy raven hair - Or of the enamoured glances of thine eyes; - Nor thy companions in the festive hour - Spoke of love's joys and sighs. - - Ere long my hope as well - Was dead and gone. By cruel Fate's decree - Was youthfulness denied - Unto my years. Ah me! - How art thou past for aye, - Thou dear companion of my earlier day, - My hope so much bewailed! - Is this the world? Are these - The joys, the loves, the labours and the deeds - Whereof so often we together spoke? - Is this the doom to which mankind proceeds? - When truth before thee lay - Revealed, thou sankest; and thy dying hand - Pointed to death, a figure of cold gloom, - And to a distant tomb. - - - - - THE MEMORIES. - - - Ye stars of Ursa's sign, I did not think - I should return, as formerly, to gaze - Upon you, shining on my father's garden, - And with you to hold parley from the windows - Of this old mansion where in youth I dwelt, - And of my joys beheld the bitter end. - How many strange imaginings of yore - Your aspect and the stars that near you shine, - Created in my thoughts when 'twas my wont, - In silence wrapped, on verdant sward reclining, - To pass the hours of evening, gazing long - Upon the sky and list'ning to the sound - That issued from frog-haunted marshes far. - 'Twas then the glow-worm hovered round the hedges - And o'er the beds of flowers; while to the wind - The fragrant alleys rustled, and beyond - The cypress forest moaned; and 'neath our roof - Voices proceeded, and the quiet work - Of the attendants. And what thoughts immense, - What sweetest dreams inspired me at the view - Of that far-distant sea, those azure mountains, - Which yonder I discern, and which some day - I hoped to cross, an unknown world, unknown - Felicity depicting to my years! - This life of mine, so painful and so bare, - I willingly with death would have exchanged! - - Nor did my heart foretell I should be doomed - To consummate my youthful years in this - My native hamlet rude; amid a race - Ribaldrous, vile; to which are names most strange, - And often themes of mockery and jibes, - Learning and science; and it hates and shuns me, - Not out of envy, for it does not deem - My worth superior, but because it knows - That in my heart I think so, though thereof - An outward sign to none I ever gave. - Here do I pass my years, abandoned, hidden, - And without love or life; and needs amid - A rabble so malignant, bitter grow; - Here I discard all pity and all virtue, - And a despiser of mankind become, - Because of those around me; and, meanwhile, - The cherished time of youth escapes, more dear - Than fame or laurels, dearer than the pure - Radiance of day and vital breath; I lose thee - Without a joy, and uselessly, in this - Inhuman dwelling-place, immersed in woes, - Of barren life thou solitary flower! - - I hear the wind that wafts the striking time - From yonder village-clock. I well remember - That sound was the sole comfort to my nights, - When as a child, in darkness of my room, - I passed a sleepless vigil, full of terrors, - Sighing for day. Around me there is nothing - I see or hear, whence fancies old do not - Return, or sweet remembrances arise, - Sweet in themselves; but full of pain appears - The present to my mind, the vain desire - For what is past, though sad, the thought "I was!" - Yon loggia, turned towards the dying light - Of the expiring day; these pictured walls, - Those herds that live in painting, and the sun - O'er lonely country rising, to my leisure - Gave many joys, what time my mighty error - Beside me stood, wherever I might be, - Prompting my heart. Here in these ancient halls, - When shone the snow without, and stormy blasts - Were whistling round these ample windows high, - My pleasures had their scene, and my gay laugh - Re-echoed in that time when we suppose - The bitter, cruel mystery of things - Entirely sweet; an inexperienced lover, - Admiring heavenly beauty he conceives, - The youth pays court unto his life which yet - Before him lies untasted, unconsumed. - - Ye hopes, ye vanished hopes, ye sweet illusions - Of my beginning years! always in song - To you I come; and although time doth fly, - And thoughts do change, and even affections vary, - Forget you, I shall never. Shades, I know, - Are glory and honour, riches and delight, - Merest desire; life doth not yield a fruit, - Tis useless misery. And although empty - Are these my years, and desolate and dark - My lot on earth, I see that fortune keeps - Little from me. Alas! but when my thoughts - Recur to you, oh ye my ancient hopes! - And to my fond imagining of yore, - And then consider my existence, made - So painful and so vile that death is all - That of such high aspiring still is mine: - I feel my heart contract, I feel that wholly - There is no consolation for my fate. - And when at last this long implored for death - Shall come to me, and thus the end be reached - Of all my woes; when to my soul this earth - Shall be a vale remote; and from my sight - The future shall escape: of ye in truth - I will be mindful, and even then your image - Will make me sigh, will make the thought most bitter - That I have lived in vain, and even the sweetness - Of dying it will temper with affliction. - - Even in the earliest youthful turbulence - Of happiness, of anguish, of desire, - I often called for death; and long I sat - Out there, upon the margin of yon fountain, - And thought of ending in that lucid stream - My hope and pain. But soon Misfortune blind - Conducted me through life's most various maze, - And I then wept for youth and for the flower - Of my ill-fated days, that ere its time - Withered; and often through belated hours - Upon my bed reclining, mournfully - Conning my verses at the lamp's dim ray, - With silence and with night I did lament - My spirit flying hence, and on myself - In languid pain a funeral dirge I sang. - - Who without sighing can remember ye, - O early dawn of youth, O happy days - Charming beyond narration? When on man - Fair women first do smile and make him blest - With tokens of their love; when all around - Is radiant; when even envy still is silent, - Not yet roused, or else kind; and when it seems, - Oh unaccustomed miracle! the world - Doth offer him a helping, generous hand, - Forgives his errors, celebrated his new - Arrival in this life, and full of homage - Appears to hail him and receive him lord? - Ah fleeting days! As swift as lightning's flash - They disappear. And who of those on earth - Can be to woe a stranger, if for him - That season is no more, if his fair time, - If youth, ah youth! for evermore be gone? - - O my Nerina I and perchance of thee - These scenes I hear not tell? Art thou perchance - Fallen from my recollection? Where art thou, - That here of thee the memory alone - I find, my sweetest love? This native soil - Sees thee no more; that window, whence thy wont - It was to hold discourse with me, and whence - Sadly the starry radiance is reflected, - Is desolate. Where art thou, that no more - I hear thy voice as in a former day, - When every distant accent from thy lips - That reached mine ear, had in it such a charm, - It changed my hue? Those times are gone. Those days - Are over, my adored. Thou passedst. Others - By Fate are now allowed on earth to live - And make their dwelling 'mid these fragrant hills. - But far too rapidly thy life did end, - Even as a dream. It was thy wont to dance, - And on thy brow shone joy, and in thine eyes - That fond imagining, that radiant light - Of youth, when Fate extinguished them, and thou - Didst lie in death. Ah me, Nerina! Still - The old love reigns in my heart. If I at times - To festive pleasures go, unto myself - I say: "Alas, Nerina I For such joys - Thou dost no more array thee, nor proceed." - If May returns, and flowers and roundelays - The lovers offer to their well-beloved, - I say, "Nerina mine! for thee no more - Doth Spring return, nor do the sweets of love." - Each day serene in beauty, and each bed - Of flowers I see, each joyaunce that I feel, - I say: "Nerina now no more enjoys them, - Nor sees the earth and sky." Ah, thou art gone, - Thou my eternal sigh, gone: and united - With all my musings, with my tenderest feelings, - And with the heart's emotions, sad yet dear. - Shall be for aye the bitter memory. - - - - - THE NOCTURNAL SONG - - OF A - - NOMADIC SHEPHERD IN ASIA. - - - Wherefore, O Moon, art thou on high? O say, - Thou silent Moon serene! - At night thou dost proceed, - Our waste beholding, then dost sink to rest. - Hast thou ne'er weary been - Of repursuing the everlasting way? - Untired as yet, still takest thou delight - On earth to turn thy sight? - Even as thy life on high, - The shepherd's life doth fly. - When dawn succeeds to night, - He sallies forth and leads his flock to graze. - He sees the grass and flowers, - And, weary, resteth in nocturnal hours, - Nor other hope doth raise. - Say, Moon, what boots his life - To humble swain, or thy - Divine existence unto thee on high? - Where doth my life below, - Thy course immortal go? - - Even as an old man bent, - Ragged and white of hair, - Whose aching shoulders grievous fardels bear, - O'er mountains and through vales, - O'er pointed rocks, through sandy wastes, through marshes, - A prey to winds, to tempests, to fierce heat, - To snow, to ice, to sleet, - Still toils upon his way, - Through sloughs and torrents goes, - Falls, rises, hurries as though time were brief, - Without rest or relief, - Footsore and suffering, until he arrives - Where his long path did tend, - Where all his weary wandering finds an end: - A dread abyss profound - Where dark oblivion grasps him as her prey: - Thou virgin Moon, even so - Is this our life below. - - Man draws for toil his breath, - And birth itself is on the verge of death. - In pain and suffering dire - His days begin, and in life's early morn - His mother and his sire - Try to console him that he e'er was born. - As he in years doth grow, - They help him onwards, and for ever strive, - By action and by word, - To keep his hope alive, - And to console him for our fate below: - Nor any way more kind - Their fondness to display, can parents find. - But why give to the light, - Why with life animate - A wretched spirit ever seeking balm? - If heavy be our fate, - Why do we bear its weight? - O virgin Moon, even so - Is this our life below. - But thou in region calm - Dost little heed upon my wail bestow. - - Eternal pilgrim on thy lonely way, - Who full of thought dost shed thy silver ray, - Perchance to thee well known - Are life and suffering and distressful moan; - Thou knowest what is death, what the supreme - Grey pallor of the face, - The earth that leaveth not a mental trace, - And the awakening from our life's deep dream. - And thou, in truth, dost see - The cause of things, and what the fruit may be - Of morning and of night, - And of Time's silent, never-ending flight. - Thou knowest, in truth, what tender love and sweet - Spring with its buds doth greet, - Why summer heats arise, and what device - Brings winter with its ice. - A thousand things unto thy soul are plain, - Which are but riddles to the simple swain. - Oft when I see thee shine - In lonely sphere and solemn state divine - Upon our waste that stretches to the skies; - Or when my flock I lead - And see thy radiance on my path proceed, - And when the stars' clear rays attract mine eyes, - Within my soul I say: - "What means so many a ray? - Where goes the wind? what booteth in the sky - The endless space serene? What is the thought - Of this vast solitude, and what am I?" - Thus my amazement to express I sought, - Nor of the proud abode, - Too vast in size, nor of the unnumbered race, - Nor of the labours and the powers that goad - All things of earth and of the realms divine, - Revolving without rest, - To be again where they commenced their road: - Of all I cannot trace - The use or meaning. Surely thou art blest - With deeper lore, who in the spheres dost shine. - I only know and feel, - Of all the skies reveal, - Of my frail life below, - That unto me existence is but woe. - - O thou, my flock that liest in repose! - Thrice blessed thou, unconscious of distress! - How much I envy thee! - Nor merely that from woes - Thy destiny is free, - Nor that all things unkind, - All sudden fears soon vanish from thy mind; - But most because thou knowest not weariness. - When lying on a grassy plot in shade, - Thou art contented made. - A long part of the year - Thus flies by thee, and not a care is near. - And I as well on grassy plot in shade - My body oft have laid; - But weariness lies heavy on my soul; - And, seated, I am further from the goal - Of peace and sweet repose. - And yet I yearn for nought, - Nor have I any reason for my woes. - What makes thy happy state - I cannot say; but thou art fortunate, - And I have little joy, - My flock; nor therein lies my whole annoy. - If thou couldst speak, I'd ask - Why, lying in calm shade, - All beasts are happy made; - But when I leisure know - I am assailed by weariness and woe? - - If wings perchance had I - Above the clouds to fly, - And one by one the radiant stars to count, - Or like fierce thunder o'er the crags to roam, - I should be happier, thou my gentle flock, - I should be happier, virgin Moon on high. - Or else, perchance, my thought - By vagrant dreams is full of errors fraught; - Perchance in every form - That Nature may on everything bestow, - The day of birth brings everlasting woe. - - - - - THE RULING THOUGHT. - - - Omnipotent and kind, - Lord of the deep recesses of my mind; - In terrors clad, yet dear - Gift of the skies; so near - In my gloom-darkened days, - Thought upon which so oft I fix my gaze: - - Thy nature unrevealed - Who doth not contemplate? Who wears a shield - Impervious to thy power? - Though tongue of man must say - What passion in his bosom beareth sway, - All thou may'st utter seemeth new for aye. - - How like a hermit lone - Was this my spirit made - Even from the time thou didst my mind invade! - As rapidly as lightnings flash and die, - My other thoughts did fade, - Not one remaining. Like a strong tower, high - On solitary plain, - Thou, lonely giant, o'er my soul dost reign. - - What to my visionary gaze became - All things of earth, and all - That life can give, alone excepting thee! - How on my spirit pall - The labours and the leisure, - And vain desiring of still vainer pleasure, - Compared unto that joy, - That heavenly joy, which maketh thee my treasure! - - As from the naked peaks - Of rugged Appenine, - With longing gaze the weary pilgrim seeks - The verdant meads that in the distance shine: - Thus from the harsh and dry - Scene of the world, to thee I gladly fly, - As to a beauteous garden, and I find - Thy fair abode unto my spirit kind. - - I scarcely can believe - That I this life and our ignoble world - For years of weary length - Without thee had the strength - To bear. Hard to conceive - It is that men aspire, - Ignoring thee, to many a vain desire. - - Ne'er from the hour when first - Experience taught me what this life can be, - Did fear of death bring terror to my heart; - And now a jest to me - Seems what the world so base - At times extols, but never dares to face, - The necessary end: - If any peril falleth to my part, - Before its threat my spirit doth not bend. - - I always held in scorn - The craven and the mean; - Now every deed, of lowly baseness born, - Doth move my spirit keen; - My soul doth flash with ire - When human vileness desolates my view. - This haughty age untrue, - Feeding itself on barren hopes and vain, - To folly gentle, and to virtue dire, - That asks for things of use, - Nor sees by what abuse - Our life becometh useless more and more, - I loathe, arising o'er - Its meanness. Human acts I ne'er esteem; - The crowd that doth disdain - Thy loveliness, in all I worthless deem. - - What passion doth not yield - To that inspired by thee? - The one thou hast revealed - Alone rules man in sovran majesty. - Pride, hatred, avarice and fierce disdain, - The zeal to shine and reign, - What else than shadows vain - Are they beside it? One affection lives - Among our race below, - By laws eternal sent - To rule mankind, a lord omnipotent. - - Life hath no meaning and not one delight - Except from that which unto man is all, - The sole excuse of Fate - Who placed on earthly soil - Our race to languish in such fruitless toil; - Whereby alone at times, - Not to the rabble, but the gentle heart, - Life more than death appears the better part. - To cull thy joys, O thought divinely sweet! - The weight of human woes, - Of life the weary chain, - Were not endured in utter anguish vain; - And I would even return, - Versed as I am in every earthly ill, - For such a goal to repursue the road. - Of viper's sting and of the sands that burn - I never felt the goad - So much, that, coming unto thy relief, - It gave no balm unto terrestrial grief. - - What wondrous worlds, what new - Immensities, what Paradise is there, - Where oft thy wizard power my spirit drew - In lofty flights, and where - By other radiance than on earth e'er shined, - I stray, nor to my mind - My earthly state recall, nor truth unkind! - Such are, methinks, the dreams - Of the immortals. Ah! a dream, in sooth, - Thou art, sweet thought, a garment to adorn - Harsh and unlovely truth, - An error palpable. But even of those - Fair errors Nature shows, - Thou art divine, because so strong and deep, - That 'gainst the real thou thy ground dost keep; - Thy power its equal seems, - And only in death from mortal spirit goes. - - And thou, indeed, my thought, unto my days - Alone the vital breath, - Thou cherished cause of infinite despair, - With me shalt fall beneath the stroke of death: - I gather from the signs my soul displays - That thou shalt reign, eternal monarch, there. - All other errors, sweet - Disperse on pinions fleet - At Truth's approach. And even the more I turn - Upon her brow to gaze, - Of whom with thee discoursing my days fly, - The more the joyaunce grows, - The frenzy wild whence my existence flows. - Angelic loveliness! - The fairest face that ever met mine eye, - Methinks like image vain - Attempts to rival thee. Thou art alone - The fountain and the spring - Of every charm that can enchantment bring. - - From when I saw thee first, - What other care did ever prompt my heart - Than love of thee? How much of day doth part - Without a thought of thine? In sleep immerst, - When lay my weary soul - By dreams unhaunted of thy sovran form? - As beautiful as dreams - Thy angel vision seems. - On earth below or in the distant spheres: - What hope to me appears - Of finding aught more lovely than thine eyes, - Or sweeter joyaunce than thy thought supplies? - - - - - LOVE AND DEATH. - - - "He dies in youth who to the gods is dear." - MBNANDER. - - Brethren at one time, Love and Death, did Fate - Of yore ingenerate. - Nought fairer here below - - Hath this our world, nor have the stars, to show. - Joys from the one do flow, - The greatest joys that we - Can in the ocean of existence see. - The other every pain - And every woe bids wane. - A maiden fair of face, - Sweet to behold, not such - As doth imagine this our craven race, - She likes to join full oft - The youthful god of love, - And both then fly aloft, - The paths of earth above, - Chief comfort of each wise and noble heart; - Nor was a heart more wise - Than when by love inspired; - Nor in a braver mood - This life of woe and anguish to despise, - Nor for a lord more high - Than this one is, each danger to defy: - For where thou giv'st thine aid, - Love, courage soon is made, - Or doth revive; in noble actions wise - And not, as it is wont, in idle mind, - Becomes our humankind. - - When in the heart profound - Ariseth young and - A weary, languid longing for the grave - Our bosom doth inspire: - How, I know not; but such - Of real love the first effect is found. - Perchance our eyes we cast - Upon the desert of the world aghast, - And mortal man his habitation loathes - Without that joy supreme - Whereof his soul doth dream; - But in his heart foreboding tempests wild - From that same joy, he sighs for quiet mild - And for a harbour's ease - That should the storm appease, - Of which he felt such wild emotions vast. - - And when with vivid fire - The passion burns the heart, - And an imperishable empire gains: - How many times, O Death, - With an intense desire - The lover prays thee to conclude his pains! - How oft by night, how oft - By day, impatient of his weary frame, - He would have called his destiny divine, - If he had ne'er arisen, - Nor seen again the unpitying planets shine! - And oft when tolled the deep funereal knell, - And sang the dirge beside the sable hearse - That bears the dead to their eternal night, - With many burning sighs - From deepest heart he envied the repose - Of him who went among the tombs to dwell. - Even they of low degree: - The tiller of the soil, - All strength ignoring that from wisdom flows. - The tender maiden, full of fear and shame, - Who at the very name - Of Death was wont to quake: - The gloomy horrors of the dreaded grave - Oft overcome with fortitude most brave, - Long thoughtful of the means - That end all earthly woes, - And in uncultured mind - The wondrous beauty of expiring find. - So much to death inclined - The power of love appears; and many a time, - To such a height the furious tempest risen - That it breaks through the trammels of its prison, - The body worn and frail - Yields to the storm, and Death we see prevail - Even in that guise through her fraternal power; - Or Love so deeply stirs the heart to ire, - That by their deed the rustic, void of guile, - And tender maiden fair - In agonised despair - Their lives destroy when youth doth on them smile. - The world doth mock their end, - To whom may Heaven peace and old age send. - - To fervent, to sublime, - To daring souls august, - May one or both of ye kind Fortune yield, - - O friends and lords, and shield - Of this our humankind, - Ye to whose power no rival power we find - Throughout the world, where we our eyes may cast, - Unless in Fate, so terrible and vast. - And thou, whom even from earliest days of yore - I honour and implore, - Thou beauteous Death, alone - Of all the world to earthly woes benign! - If e'er to thee I've shown - My love in song, if to thy sway divine - I tried to expiate - Unthankful scorn and hate, - Delay no more, incline - To an unwonted prayer, - Close from the light's harsh glare - These tear-worn eyes, O sovereign of our fate! - Me thou shalt find, whatever be the day - When at my moan thou shalt thy wings display, - With an undaunted brow, - 'Gainst Fortune fortified, - The ruthless hand that with my guileless gore - Is crimsoned o'er and o'er. - Not covering with praise, - Not blessing, as the ways - Of men dictate, whom ancient errors guide; - All idle hopes that may console them now - Like children in their grief, - And every comfort brief - I'll spurn: nought else than thee in any age - Implore my woes to assuage; - Hope but that day's relief - When I, serene, my head can lay to rest - Upon thy virgin breast. - - - - - TO HIMSELF. - - - Now shalt thou rest for aye, - My weary heart. The final error dies - Wherewith I nourished my divinest dreams. - 'Tis gone. I feel in me for sweet delusions - Not merely hope, but even desire, is dead. - Rest for all time. Enough - Hath been thine agitation. There is nought - So precious, thou shouldst seek it; and the earth - Deserveth not a sigh. But weary bitterness - Is life, nought else, and ashes is the world. - Be now at peace. Despair - For the last time. Unto our race did Fate - Give nought, save death. Now hold in scorn and hate - Thyself and Nature and the power unknown, - That reigns supreme unto the grief of all, - And the vast vanity of this terrestrial ball. - - - - - ASPASIA. - - - Again at times appeareth to my thought - Thy semblance, O Aspasia I either flashing - Across my path amid the haunts of men - In other forms; or 'mid deserted fields - When shines the sun or tranquil host of stars, - As by the sweetest harmony awoke, - Arising in my soul which seems once more - To yield unto that vision all superb, - How much adored, O Heaven I of yore how fully - The joyaunce and the halo of my life? - I never meet the perfume of the gardens, - Or of the flowers that cities may display, - Without beholding thee as thou appearedst - Upon that day, when in thy splendid rooms - Which gave the perfume of the sweetest flowers - Of recent Spring, arrayed in robes that bore - The violet's hue, first thine angelic form - Did meet my gaze as thou, reclining, layest - On strange, white furs, and deep, voluptuous charm - Seemed to be thine, whilst thou, a skilled enchantress - Of loving hearts, upon the rosy lips - Of thy fair children many a fervent kiss - Imprintedst, bending down to them thy neck - Of snowy beauty, and with lovely hand - Their guileless forms, unconscious of thy wile, - Clasping unto thy bosom, so desired, - Though hidden. To the visions of my soul - Another sky and more entrancing world - And radiance as from heaven were revealed. - Thus in my heart, though not unarmed, thy power - Infixed the arrow which I wounded bore, - Until that day when the revolving earth - A second time her yearly course fulfilled. - - A ray divine unto my thought appeared, - Lady, thy beauty. Similar effects - Beauty and music's harmony produce, - Revealing both the mysteries sublime - Of unknown Eden. Thence the loving soul, - Though injured in his love, adores the birth - Of his fond mind, the amorous idea - That doth include Olympus in its range, - And seems in face, in manner, and in speech - Like unto her whom the enchanted lover - Fancies alone to cherish and admire. - Not her, but that sweet image, he doth clasp - Even in the raptures of a fond embrace, - At last his error and the objects changed - Perceiving, wrath invades him, and he oft - Wrongly accuses her he thought he loved. - The mind of woman to that lofty height - Rarely ascends, and what her charms inspire - She little thinks and seldom understands. - So frail a mind can harbour no such thought; - In vain doth man, deluded by the light - Of those enthralling eyes, indulge in hope; - In vain he asks for deep and hidden thoughts, - Transcending mortal ken, of her to whom - Hath Nature's laws a lesser rank assigned, - For as her frame less strength than man's received, - So too her mind less energy and depth.? - - Nor thou as yet what inspirations vast - Within my thought thy loveliness aroused, - Aspasia, could'st conceive. Thou little knowest - What love unmeasured and what woes intense, - What frenzy wild and feelings without name, - Thou didst within me move, nor shall the time - Appear when thou canst know it. Equally - The skilled performer ignorant remains - Of what with hand or voice he doth arouse - Within his hearers. That Aspasia now - Is dead, whom I so worshipped. She lies low - For evermore, once idol of my life: - Unless at times, a cherished shade, she rises, - Ere long to vanish. Thou art still alive, - Not merely lovely, but of such perfection - That, as I think, thou dost eclipse the rest. - But now the ardour, born of thee, is spent: - Because I loved not thee, but that fair goddess - Who had her dwelling in me, now her grave. - Her long I worshipped, and so was I pleased - By her celestial loveliness, that I, - Even from the first full conscious and aware - Of what thou art, so wily and so false, - Beholding in thine eyes the light of hers, - Fondly pursued thee while she lived in me; - Not dazzled or deluded; but induced - By the enjoyment of that sweet resemblance, - A long and bitter slavery to bear. - - Now boast, for well thou may'st; say that alone - Of all thy sex art thou to whom I bent - My haughty head, to whom I gladly gave - My heart in homage. Say that thou wert first - And last, I truly hope, to see mine eyes' - Imploring gaze, and me before thee stand - Timid and fearful (as I write, I burn - With wrath and shame); me of myself deprived, - Each look of thine, each gesture and each word - Observing meekly; at thy haughty freaks - Pale and subdued; then radiant with delight - At any sign of favour; changing hue - At every glance of thine. The charm is gone; - And with it shattered, falls the heavy yoke, - Whence I rejoice. Though weariness be with me, - Yet after such delirium and long thraldom, - Gladly my freedom I again embrace, - And my unshackled mind. For if a life - Void of affections and of errors sweet, - Be like a starless night in winter's depth, - Revenge sufficient and sufficient balm - It is to me that here upon the grass - Leisurely lying and unmoved, I gaze - On sky, earth, ocean, and serenely smile. - - - - - ON AN ANCIENT SEPULCHRAL BASSO RILIEVO - - REPRESENTING A MAIDEN TAKING LEAVE OF HER FRIENDS. - - - Where goest thou, and what imperious voice - Calls thee away from love, - Thou maiden fair of face? - Why, lonely wanderer, from thy native place - Dost thou depart before thy days are old? - Say, wilt thou ne'er return? No more rejoice - Whom round thee now thou dost in tears behold? - - Thou weepest not, and dauntless is thy brow, - Though sadness on thy features leaves a trace. - If life hath pleasing or unjoyous been, - If dark with gloom or bright with joy the place - To which thou hurriest now, - Is by no sign upon thy features seen. - Alas! I cannot find - Solution of the problem in my mind: - Nor can our race below - With full assurance know - If Heaven to thee doth gentle favour show, - Or unrelenting ire, - Or if thy doom be fortunate or dire. - - Death summons thee. The dawning of thy days - Beholds their early close. - The home thy footsteps leave - Shall ne'er again thy beauteous form receive. - On thy fond parents thou no more shalt gaze; - Beneath the earth thy future home is laid, - Where for all time thy dwelling shall be made. - It may be, thou art blest: but on thy doom - Who meditates, must sigh in bitter gloom. - - The light ne'er to have seen, - Methinks would be the best. But, being born, - When beauty first begins to reign, a queen, - And the fair form to adorn, - And meets eternal praise, - And many a fervent and adoring gaze; - When Hope her fragrant buds begins to show, - And ere the beauteous land and sky around - Unpitying Truth in darkness doth confound: - To find, like vaporous and ethereal clouds - That in frail shapes on the horizon play, - The future fly, as though unheralded, - The joys of times desired - Beneath the silent tombstone lying dead: - If in this doom the mind - Some happiness can find, - Even sternest heart with pity must be fired. - - Thou mother feared and wept - By mortal races from their earliest days, - Nature, thou marvel that I cannot praise, - Who givest life in order to destroy! - If agony be kept - Alive by early and untimely death, - Why on the innocent thy wrath employ? - And if it give relief, - Why of all woes the chief, - Why make the parting so disconsolate - To him who still draws breath, - To him whom Death's eternal realms await? - - Unhappy where we gaze, - Unhappy where we turn or where we rest, - Are man's disastrous days! - It pleaseth thee that void - And utterly destroyed - Should be our youthful hope; that seas of woe - Should part our years; to evil only shield - Be Death; and that which we can never shun, - The law stern and supreme, - By thee is given us when our course is run. - Ah me! But after our laborious way - Why is, at least, the goal not fair and gay? - Why her, who doth control - Our future, looming darkly in our soul, - Why her, who is the balm - To these our days ne'er calm, - In sable robes array, - Involve in shadows grey? - Why in our fancy form - The harbour more terrific than the storm? - - If this, indeed, be woe, - This death which thou dost keep - Impending o'er us all, whom, without guilt, - Unconscious and unwilling, thou hast doomed - To live; he who is wrapped in death's long sleep, - Should more our envy rouse, - Than he who liveth his beloved to weep. - If, as I firmly think, - Life is but misery - And death a mercy, yet whoever could - Desire, even as he should, - The fatal day of those to him most dear, - To find himself bereaved, - Disconsolate and grieved, - To see away from his deserted home - The cherished figure borne - That did for many years his life adorn? - To utter an eternal fare-thee-well, - Without hope finding birth - To meet again on earth; - Then lonely and abandoned in this world, - Gazing around in wonted time and scene, - To bear in mind the union that hath been? - Ah I tell me, Nature, how hast thou the heart - From the embrace to rend - Of friend, the loving friend, - From brother, brother dear, - The offspring from the sire, - And love from love; and bidding one expire, - Doom the survivor to existence dire? - How could thy ruthless deed - Cause so much sorrow that the living bleed - In heart for love entombed? But Nature's end, - On her mysterious way, - Is not to foster joy, or sorrow to allay. - - - - - THE SETTING OF THE MOON. - - - As in the lonely night - O'er lakes and mountains bathed in silver light, - When zephyr gaily plays, - And visions meet our gaze, - Strange forms that weave a power - In the nocturnal hour, - By distant shadows wrought - O'er hill and dale and gently flowing streams: - The Moon descends unto the sky's last verge - Behind the ridge of Alp or Appenine, - Or in the Tyrrhene sea her rays doth merge; - And as she falls, no radiance more doth shine, - The shadows fade, and all - The world lies wrapped in one funereal pall; - Bereaved the night remains; - And singing in impassioned, mournful strains, - The wanderer salutes the last, faint ray - Of her who lit his way - With argent crescent in the spheres divine: - - Even thus youth wanes and flies, - And every joyaunce dies, - And Hope expires, the reed whereon we leant - In happier days, ere every bliss was spent, - And ere our life obscure - And desolate became. - The weary wanderer gazes on the scene - Of sable hue that now doth intervene, - And vainly asketh why - So dire a path before him yet should lie; - And as unto his eye - The world appeareth changed, - He finds himself no more what he hath been, - But to the world and all its ways estranged. - - Too happy and too gay - Our span of mortal life - Would seem unto the powers that rule above, - If youthfulness were to endure for aye, - Wherein a thousand sorrows yield one joy; - Too gentle the decree - Whence all that liveth doomed to death we see, - Unless a gift were made, - When men have finished half of their long way, - Than death itself with greater terrors fraught; - The worst of ills and the extreme of woe, - Old age was found by an unswerving doom, - Wherein desire doth glow, - Hope wanes and pales and dwindles down to nought, - The fountains of delight are frozen and quelled, - The sorrow's greater, and all bliss withheld. - - Ye mountains and ye plains, - When fall the rays that in the West adorn I - With silvery trace the sable veil of night, - Ye shall not be forlorn - For many hours: the Eastern skies ere long - Ye shall perceive aglow - With break of day and early rise of morn, - Whom following, the Sun his fires doth show, - And blazing all around - In full effulgence strong, - With seas of light invades - The space above and the terrestrial glades. - But life of man, when lovely youth is spent, - No other light hath found, - Nor to existence other dawn is lent: - 'Tis lonely and bereaved even to its close: - And to the night that weighs on later years, - By the decree of doom, - As goal is given the silence of the tomb. - - - - - THE GENISTA - - OR - - THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT. - - - "Men loved darkness rather than the light." - ST. JOHN III., XIX. - - Here on the barren soil - Of Mount Vesuvius dread, - That fell destroyer stern - Who doth delight no other flower or tree, - Thy solitary blossoms thou dost spread, - Fragrant Genista sweet, - Rejoicing in the deserts. I beheld - Thy flowers adorn the lonely hills that stand - Around the city grand, - That was of yore the Empress of mankind, - And for the reign resigned, - They with their dumb solemnity austere - Seem from the wanderer to claim a tear. - Now I again behold thee on this shore; - Fond of sad haunts, abandoned by the world, - Companion of misfortune evermore. - These regions, sprinkled o'er - With showers of barren ashes and supplied - With lava petrified, - - Resounding to the pilgrim as he treads: - Where we see twining in the sun the snake, - And where in caverns dark - The timorous hares their wonted refuge take: - Were happy homes, and fields, - Like those where harvest now its rich boon yields, - Alive with lowing herds; - They were palatial halls - And wondrous gardens, dear - Unto the great, and famous cities' walls: - All which the haughty mountain with the torrents - That from his fiery crater ruthless rolled, - Crushed, while their inmates were by death destroyed. - Now ruin makes a void - Of all around where, beauteous flower, thou growest, - And as in pity for the scene of woe - Upon the air a perfume sweet bestowest, - Consoling to the desert. To this shore - Let him proceed whose wont it is to praise - Our earthly state, and let him see how much - Our race is held in care - By loving Nature. And he here as well - Can more exactly tell - How far extends the power of human kind, - Whom its harsh tyrant, when it least may fear, - With slight exertion can destroy in part, - And with a little more - Could in an instant wholly sweep away, - Annihilate, and slay. - Upon these shores are seen - Of our poor human race - "The splendid fortunes and progressive pace."[9] - Here gaze as on a mirror, - Thou age unwise and proud, - Who errest from the way - That rising thought illumined with its ray, - And as thy steps a backward course pursue, - Art glad of thy return, - Which seemeth progress to thy troubled view. - Thy folly by all minds - Whose evil destiny made thee their sire, - Is pampered, even though - They, when unheeded, throw - Disdain on thee. Not I - Will so inglorious sink into my grave, - 'Twere easy enough, I know, - For me to join the others in their wrong - And to thine ears melodious make my song: - But rather the disdain of thee that lies - Within my bosom deep, - I shall, as widely as I can, display, - Although neglect for those - Be held in store who much their age oppose. - This evil which I've borne - With thee in common, moved till now my scorn. - Fair freedom is the subject of thy dreams: - Yet thou enslavest thought, - By whom alone we're brought - From rudeness by degrees, by whom alone - Is culture fostered, who alone can send - The fate of nations to a better end. - So much didst thou in horror hold the truth - Of the harsh doom and dungeon-like abode - That Nature gave us. Therefore didst thou turn, - With craven soul, thy vision from the light - That made it clear; and in thy flight dost spurn - As vile who seek its rays, - And him alone dost praise, - Who, scornful of himself or of the rest, - Above the stars says man's degree is blest. - - He, poor of state and suffering of frame, - Who has a generous and lofty soul, - Doth not the homage claim - That gold and strength procure, - Nor of a splendid life and figure proud - Maketh among the crowd - An empty show absurd; - But not with treasures or with vigour blessed - He owns himself unfeigning, and is heard - In discourse to be candid on himself, - Still giving truth its due. - Unwise I hold his mind, - And not of loftier kind, - Who, born to perish and in sorrow bred, - ?Says: "I am made for joy;" - And with unhallowed pride - The annals of humanity supplied, - Grand destinies and wondrous happiness, - Which even to Heaven are strange, not to our globe - Alone, predicting here - To those whom stormy wave - Or breath of air malignant, or the shock - Of earthquake, so destroys - That Memory scarcely lingers o'er their grave. - A noble nature he - Who with a spirit free - Dares mortal eye to raise - Upon our common fate; who with bold tongue, - Debarring nought from truth, - Owneth the evil Fortune bade prevail, - And our low state and frail; - Who in affliction dire - Shows fortitude and lofty strength of soul, - Nor the fraternal hatred and the ire - So frequent on our earth, and worst of ills, - Unto his misery addeth by declaring - Man guilty of his woe, but casteth blame - On her alone who merits all the shame, - Who gives birth to mankind, - But all whose deeds we harsh and cruel find. - Her he calls hostile; and considering men, - As truth itself declares, - In union joined against her evil ways - By social bonds of old, - He as confederates doth all mortals hold - Among themselves, and all - With equal love surveys, - And giveth aid where 'tis desired and needed - In various peril and disastrous ways, - Beset by common warfare. And to raise - A vengeful hand for injuries of men, - Our neighbour to destroy, - So ill-advised he deems as on the field - Of battle, close surrounded by the foe, - When most the fight doth rage - Against our friends to wage - Disastrous war, oblivious of the rest, - And with pernicious sword - To spread dismay and slaughter 'mid their ranks. - When thoughts like these are made, - As once they were, unto the nations known, - By real knowledge in its influence vast; - And the dread horror shown - That first 'gainst Nature bade - Our humankind in social chain unite: - Then shall the just, the honest and the right, - And patriotic fire, - And mercy find a more enduring source - Than is supplied by haughty dreams and vain - That now the vulgar righteousness sustain, - Which proves itself even so - As everything that doth from error flow.[10] - - Full often on this shore, - Clad by the hardened flood - Of lava in a garment dark of hue - That seems to surge, I seat myself at night, - And shining on the saddened land, the stars - In plains of purest azure meet my view, - Reflected by the deep; - And through the space serene in circles vast - The sparkling Heavens open on my sight, - And when my vision on those lights I cast, - That seem so small to be, - And are in truth so large - That by their side would shrivel land and sea - To nothingness; to whom - Not humankind alone - Is utterly unknown, - But even this globe where man is less than nought; - And when I gaze upon those clustering stars - In greater distance without any end, - Seeming to us like vapour, unto whom - Not merely man and not the earth he treads, - But all the stars, the neighbours of our world, - And even the golden radiance of the Sun, - Were never known, or else appear as they - Unto our sight, a spot - Of luminous mist: what then unto my thought, - Becomest thou, mankind? - And when I bear in mind - Thy state below, whereof the signs are seen - Upon the soil I tread: and when I think - Thy pride doth call thee queen - And end of all, and how thou lovest oft - To fable that unto this grain obscure - Of wretched dust which bears the name of earth, - For love of thee, of universal things - The lords descended, and were known to dwell - Benignly in thy midst: and that the dreams - So idle even the present age renews, - Opprobrious to the wise, although it seems - In knowledge and in deed - Superior to the past: what passion fires, - O hapless race of man, what thought inspires - For thee my heart? In truth, I cannot say - If mockery or if pity beareth sway. - - As from its tree a ripened apple falling, - By Autumn's power, nought else, - Cast on the earth in full maturity, - Crushes and overwhelms - The populous abode of busy ants, - Destroying all their hoarded treasures vast, - The fruit of summer toil, - Which they had piled in those elaborate caves - Formed by their cunning in the yielding soil: - Even thus in dread and thundering fury cast - From the deep rumbling womb - Of yon destructive mountain in its ire, - Night and destruction in a cloud of ashes, - Of rocks and lurid fire, - Fall on the land devoted to its doom; - And boiling torrents run - And down the mountain flow - With rapid wrath and all-consuming rage; - And o'er the verdure falls - A furious rush and grand - Of liquid metal and of fiery sand, - Such as o'erwhelmed the cities on the shore, - And in an instant they were seen no more. - On their deserted site - We see the browzing goat, - And other cities we behold arise, - Beneath whose splendid domes - Full many a vast and ancient ruin lies; - And even these lofty walls - The haughty mountain threatens and appals. - Nature no more doth hold - In tenderness and love - The race of man than insects of the earth; - And if we in mankind - May less destruction find, - 'Tis that of offspring it has greater dearth. - - One thousand and eight hundred years have passed - Since by the force of subterranean fire - The peopled cities found an end so dire; - And still the peasant full of anxious fears - For what he planted on the arid soil, - Amid the death-like ashes and the stones, - Suspicious turns his eye - To where he sees, aspiring to the sky, - The fatal peak, as cruel as of yore, - For ever threatening ruin to his home. - And oft at night, alarmed, - Lying for sleepless hours, - In terror listening to the wandering wind, - At last he rises and ascends his roof, - And gazes thence upon the dreaded course - Of boiling lava, rushing from the womb - Of the unexhausted mount, - O'er sandy ridge, and casting lurid light - On Capri's distant strand, - On Naples' bay and Mergellina's land. - He wakes his children and his trembling wife, - If he perceives it coming, or within - His household well heats seething waters boil; - And with whatever they can snatch in haste, - Away they rush, and witness from afar - Their dwelling and their field, - From hunger and despair their only shield, - By the disastrous torrents soon laid waste, - That fiercely rush and cruelly invade, - And lie for ever on the wreck they've made. - Even as a skeleton that from its grave - Is brought to light by piety or greed, - The dead Pompeii to the realms of day - From old oblivion doth again proceed: - And from the ruined Forum and the file - Of shattered columns tall, - The wanderer gazes on the cloven peak - And on the smoky crest, - Still threatening even the ruins in their fall - And in the horror of the secret night, - Among theatres empty and forlorn, - Among the mouldering temples and among - The shattered houses where the bat doth hide, - Like an ill-omened torch - In empty fanes and halls untenanted, - The terrors run of the funereal stream, - Which in the shade doth gleam - And tinges all around with fiery red. - Of man unconscious and of all the years - That he calls old, and offspring laid by sire, - Thus Nature stands in ever-blooming youth; - Or rather, she proceeds - Upon a path so long, a course so wide, - That to our eyes she never seems to move. - Meanwhile realms fall, and tongues and nations wane - She seeth nought, and man doth still presume - Eternity to claim in haughty pride. - - And thou, slow-spreading flower, - With many an odorous wood, - Who dost adorn these regions desolate; - Thou too ere long shalt sink beneath the power - Of the unpitying subterranean fire, - Which will extend its ire, - Returning to the scene it knew of old, - Unto thy gentle forests, and beneath - The fatal weight thou wilt thy head incline, - Though innocent, without a murmuring wail, - But not till then in cowardice cast down - With supplication and imploring prayer - Before the future tyrant, but not raised - With frenzied pride unto the very stars, - Nor on the desert where - Thou hadst thy dwelling-place, - Not by thy will, by the decree of Fate: - - But wiser far, and less - Ill-starred than man, because thou didst not think. - - Thy race endowed by Doom, - Or by thyself, with an immortal bloom. - - - [Footnote 9: Words of a modern writer to whom mil their elegance is - due. (Leopardi's note.)] - - [Footnote 10: In these verses we perceive the germ of a whole system of - ethics.] - - - FINIS. - - - POEMS - - TO ITALY. - ON THE MONUMENT OF DANTE ABOUT TO BE ERECTED IN FLORENCE. - TO ANGELO MAI - ON THE MARRIAGE OF HIS SISTER PAOLINA. - THE SOLILOQUY OF BRUTUS. - TO SPRING; OR, THE FABLES OF ANTIQUITY. - HYMN TO THE PATRIARCHS. - THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. - THE FIRST LOVE. - THE LONELY BIRD. - THE INFINITE. - THE HOLIDAY NIGHT. - TO THE MOON. - SOLITUDE. - TO HIS LOVE. - THE REVIVAL. - TO SILVIA. - THE MEMORIES. - THE NOCTURNAL SONG OF A NOMADIC SHEPHERD IN ASIA. - THE RULING THOUGHT. - LOVE AND DEATH. - TO HIMSELF. - ASPASIA. - ON AN ANCIENT SEPULCHRAL BASSO RILIEVO REPRESENTING A MAIDEN - TAKING LEAVE OF HER FRIENDS. - THE SETTING OF THE MOON. - THE GENISTA OR THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Poems of Leopardi, by Giacomo Leopardi - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF LEOPARDI *** - -***** This file should be named 53020-8.txt or 53020-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/0/2/53020/ - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at Free Literature (online soon -in an extended version, also linking to free sources for -education worldwide ... 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