And from the savage Urals to the plain

A new barbarian folk shall send alarms,

The coast of Agenorean Thebes again

Be waked with sound of chariots and of arms;

And Rome shall fall; and Tiber's current drain

The nameless lands of long-deserted farms:

But thou, like Hercules, shalt still remain,

Untouched by fiery Etna's deadly charms;

And with thy youthful temples laurel-crowned

Shalt rise to the eternal Form's embrace

Whose unveiled smile all earliest was thine;

And till the Alps to gulfing sea give place,

By Latin shore or on AchÆan ground,

Like heaven's sun, shalt thou, O Homer, shine!

Levia Gravia.

As when above the heated fields the moon

Hovers to spread its veil of summer frost,

The brook between its narrow banks half lost

Glitters in pale light, murmuring its low tune;

The nightingale pours forth her secret boon,

Whose strains the lonely traveller accost;

He sees his dear one's golden tresses tossed,

And time forgets in love's entrancing swoon;

And the orphaned mother who has grieved in vain

Upon the tomb looks to the silent skies

And feels their white light on her sorrow shine;

Meanwhile the mountains laugh, and the far-off main,

And through the lofty trees a fresh wind sighs:

Such is thy verse to me, Poet divine!

Levia Gravia.

If once I cut thee with a trembling hand

From Latin bough to Phoebus that belongs,

So now, O Lyre, shalt thou rehearse the songs

Of the Tuscan land.

What consolations fierce to bosoms hard

Of bristling warriors thou wast wont to bring,

Or else in peace the soothing verse to sing

Of the Lesbian bard!

Thou taughtest them of Venus and of Love,

And of the immortal son of Semele,

The Lycian's hair, the glowing majesty

Of deep-browed Jove.

Now, when I strike, comes smiling to my side

The spirit of Flaccus, and through choirs divine

Of laurelled nymphs that radiant round me shine,

Calmly I glide.

O dear to Jove and Phoebus! Sway benignant

Which art chief guardian of our cities' peace,

Answer our prayers! and bid the discord cease

Of souls malignant!

Juvenilia.

Fleecy and white into the western space

Hurry the clouds; the wet sky laughs

Over the market and streets; and the labour of man

Is hailed by the sun, benign, triumphal.

High in the rosy light lifts the cathedral

Its thousand pinnacles white and its saints of gold

Flashing forth its hosannas; while all around

Flutter the wings and the notes of the brown-plumed choir.

So 'tis when love and its sweet smile dispel

The clouds which had so sorely me oppressed;

The sun again arises in my soul

With all life's holiest ideals renewed

And multiplied, the while each thought becomes

A harmony and every sense a song.

Nuove Poesie.

Thou risest and kissest, O Goddess, with rosy breath, the clouds,

Kissest the dusky pinnacles of marble temples.

The forests feel thee and with a cool shiver awake;

Up soars the falcon flashing in eager joy.

Meanwhile amid the wet leaves mutter the garrulous nests,

And far off the grey gull screams over the purple sea.

First to delight in thee, down in the laborious plain,

Are the streams which glisten amid the rustling poplars.

Daringly the sorrel colt breaks away from his feeding,

Runs to the brooks with high-lifted mane, neighing in the wind.

Wakeful answers from the huts the great pack of the hounds,

And the whole valley is filled with the sound of their noisy barking.

But the man whom thou awakest to life-consuming labour,

He, O ancient Youth, O Youth eternal,

Still thoughtful admires thee, even as on the mountain

The Aryan Fathers adored thee, standing amid their white oxen.

Again upon the wing of the fresh morning flies forth

The hymn which to thee they sang over their heaped-up spears.

“Shepherdess thou of heaven! from the stalls of thy jealous sister

Thou loosest the rosy kine and leadest them back to the skies:

Thou leadest the rosy kine, and the white herds, and the horses

With the blond flowing manes dear to the brothers Asvini.”

Like a youthful bride who goes from her bath to her spouse,

Reflecting in her eyes the love of him her lover,

So dost thou smiling let fall the light garments that veil thee,

And serene to the heavens thy virgin figure reveal.

Flushed thy cheeks, with white breast panting, thou runnest

To the sovereign of worlds, to the fair flaming Suria.

And he joins and, in a bow, stretches around his mighty neck

Thy rosy arms: but at his terrible glances thou fleest.

'Tis then the Asvinian Twins, the cavaliers of heaven,

Welcome thee rosily trembling in thy chariot of gold,

And thither thou turnest where, measured the road of glory,

Wearied, the god awaits thee in the dull gloaming of eve.

“Gracious thy flight be above us!” so invoked thee the fathers,

“Gracious the going of thy radiant car over our houses.

“Come from the coasts of the East with thy good fortune,

Come, with thy flowering oats and thy foaming milk.

“And in the midst of the calves, dancing, with yellow locks,

An offspring vast shall adore thee, O Shepherdess of heaven!”

So sang the Aryans. But better pleased thee Hymettus,

Fresh with the twenty brooks whose banks smelt to heaven of thyme;

Better pleased thee on Hymettus the nimble-limbed, mortal huntsman,

Who with the buskined foot pressed the first dews of the morn.

The heavens bent down. A sweet blush tinged the forest and the hills,

When thou, O Goddess, didst descend.

But thou descendedst not; rather did Cephalus, drawn by thy kiss,

Mount, all alert, through the air, fair as a beautiful god,—

Mount on the amorous winds and amid the sweet odours,

While all around were the nuptials of flowers and the marriage of streams.

Wet lies upon his neck the heavy tress of gold and the golden quiver

Reaches above his white shoulder, held by the belt of vermilion.

O fragrant kisses of a goddess among the dews!

O ambrosia of love in the world's youth-time!

Dost thou also love, O goddess? But ours is a wearied race;

Sad is thy face, O Aurora, when thou risest over our towers.

The dim street-lamps go out; and without even glancing at thee,

A pale-faced troop go home imagining they have been happy.

Angrily at his door is pounding the ill-tempered labourer,

Cursing the dawn that only calls him back to his bondage.

Only the lover, perhaps, fresh from the dreams of the loved one,

His blood still warm from her kisses, salutes thee with joy,

Beholds with delight thy face, and feels thy cool breathing upon him:

Then cries, “O bear me, Aurora, upon thy swift courser of flame,—

“Bear me up into the fields of the stars, that there, looking down,

I may behold the earth beneath thy rosy light smiling,—

“Behold my fair one in the face of the rising day,

Let fall her black tresses down over her blushing bosom.”

Odi Barbare.

O green and silent solitudes far from the rumours of men!

Hither come to meet us true friends divine, O Lidia,

Wine and love.

O tell me why the sea far under the flaming Hesperus

Sends such mysterious moanings; and what songs are these, O Lidia,

The pines are chanting?

See with what longing the hills stretch their arms to the setting sun!

The shadow lengthens and holds them; they seem to be asking

A last kiss, O Lidia!

Odi Barbare.

I love thee, pious ox; a gentle feeling

Of vigour and of peace thou giv'st my heart.

How solemn, like a monument, thou art!

Over wide fertile fields thy calm gaze stealing,

Unto the yoke with grave contentment kneeling,

To man's quick work thou dost thy strength impart.

He shouts and goads, and answering thy smart,

Thou turn'st on him thy patient eyes appealing.

From thy broad nostrils, black and wet, arise

Thy breath's soft fumes; and on the still air swells,

Like happy hymn, thy lowing's mellow strain.

In the grave sweetness of thy tranquil eyes

Of emerald, broad and still reflected dwells

All the divine green silence of the plain.

The sovereign driver

Of the ethereal chariot

Whips the fiery wing-footed steeds—

A Titan most beautiful.

· · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·

From the Thessalian valley,

From the Ægean shores,

The vision divine of the prophets

Hellenic saw thee arise,

The youthful god most fair;

Rising through the deserted skies,

Thy feet had wings of fire,

Thy chariot was a flame,

And around thee danced

In the sphere serene

The twenty-four virgins,

In colours tawny and bright.

Didst thou not live? Did the

MÆonian verse never reach thee?

And did Proclus in vain call thee

The Love of the universe?

The inexorable truth

With its cold shadow covered

Thee, the phantom of ages past,

Hellas' god and mine.

Now, where is the chariot and the golden,

Radiant brow of youth?

An unsightly mouldering heap

Gloomily flashing remains.

Alas, from the Ausonian lands

All the gods are flown!

In a vast solitude

Thou remainest, my Muse.

In vain, O Ionian virgin,

Thy songs and thy calling on Homer;

Truth, the sallow-faced, rises

From her deserts and threatens.

Farewell, O Titan Apollo,

Who governed the rolling year;

Alone is left to lead me

Love, the last delusion.

Let us go: in the acts and the smiles

Of my Delia still do the Graces

Reveal themselves, as of old

Cephisus beheld them.

Perish the sober age

That quenches the life in me,

That freezes in souls Phoebean

The Hellenic song!

Juvenilia.

Open, O human race,

Open wide the gates!

Behold there comes to you a mighty One,

Who brings you glory and has conquered death.

Before Him let no sound of fear arise,

No sad complaints from dolorous companies.

All nature makes a feast as if to adorn

Herself, in presence of the coming Spouse.

Bring then, O Children, scatter in the way

The immortal laurel and the blushing rose

With the pure whiteness of the jessamine.

Behold He comes, the mighty King encrowned

With victory's trophies hither to your midst.

Before His face fly Death and Sin away,

While Peace and Health move at His either side.

Behold the Lord who of rebellious man

Suffered Himself the doom

And payed our ransom with His own heart's blood.

He made Himself the fellow of our grief,

He bore our burden and endured our shame.

Black over Him did fall the shadow of death.

Nor turned the Father to His cry the face—

That day when, seeing again the sacred Mount,

Came from their tombs

The prophets and the saints of Israel!

Behold the Isaac of the ancient time,

Who bends beneath the sword his gentle neck

And looks upon his slayer with a smile,

Kneeling to him in all humility.

No pity for the blooming flower of youth;

None for that bitter end,

Nor for the robbed embraces of the mother.

And now, His death forever witnessing,

He brings with Him Divine Humanity,

Irradiating all the earth with joy

As when the sun dispels the gloomy cloud;

And all the abodes of woe and that dark land

Where dwelt the shadow of death

He comforts with His presence all divine.

To Him upon His throne of victory

Be lifted up the gaze of every art,

Whom glory like a cloud doth gird around

And love angelical encompasseth.

Fly thither from the world where grief still sighs,

Where death still bides and reigns,

Fly, O my song, to Him who thee deserves,

And there relate the sorrows of His people

Who, from the good astray, still seek the good,

Like hart that panteth for the cooling stream,

Or bird imprisoned for its native air:

He from the sphere divine wherein He dwells

May send a ray benign

To souls perplexed and lost in their life's way.

Lift, O human race,

Lift up your minds

And chastened hearts to this most clement King,

Who welcomes those who turn to Him in faith!

Juvenilia.

The dead are saying: “Blessed are ye who walk along the hillsides

Flooded with the warm rays of the golden sun.

“Cool murmur the waters through flowery slopes descending.

Singing are the birds to the verdure, singing the leaves to the wind.

“For you are smiling the flowers ever new on the earth;

For you smile the stars, the flowers eternal of heaven.”

The dead are saying: “Gather the flowers, for they too pass away;

Adore the stars, for they pass never away.

“Rotted away are the garlands that lay around our damp skulls.

Roses place ye around the tresses golden and black.

“Down here it is cold. We are alone. Oh, love ye the sun!

Shine, constant star of Love, on the life which passes away!”

Odi Barbare.

O Dante, why is it that I adoring

Still lift my songs and vows to thy stern face,

And sunset to the morning grey gives place

To find me still thy restless verse exploring?

Lucia prays not for my poor soul's resting;

For me Matilda tends no sacred fount;

For me in vain the sacred lovers mount,

O'er star and star to the eternal soaring.

I hate the Holy Empire, and the crown

And sword alike relentless would have riven

From thy good Frederic on Olona's plains.

Empire and Church to ruin have gone down,

And yet for them thy songs did scale high heaven.

Great Jove is dead. Only the song remains.

Levia Gravia.

They rise aloft, marching in awful file,

The polished shafts immense of marble grey,

And in the sacred darkness seem to be

An army of giants

Who wage a war with the invisible;

The silent arches soar and spring apart

In distant flight, then re-embrace again

And droop on high.

So in the discord of unhappy men,

From out their barbarous tumult there go up

To God the sighs of solitary souls

In Him united.

Of you I ask no God, ye marble shafts,

Ye airy vaults! I tremble—but I watch

To hear a dainty well-known footstep waken

The solemn echoes.

'Tis Lidia, and she turns, and, slowly turning,

Her tresses full of light reveal themselves,

And love is shining from a pale shy face

Behind the veil.

On, on! through dusky shadows up the hill

Stretches the shining level of the snow,

Which yields and creaks each laboured step I go,

My breath preceding in a vapour chill.

Now silent all. There where the clouds stand still

The moon leaps forth into the blank, to throw

An awful shadow, a gaunt pine below,

Of branches crossed and bent in manner ill.

They seem like the uneasy thought of death.

O Winter vast, embrace me and quick stay

In icy hold my heart's tempestuous waves!

For yet that thought, shipwrecked, again draws breath,

And cries to heaven: O Night, O Winter, say,

What are the dead doing down there in their graves?

See how green Sermio laughs in the lake's lucid waters,

she the peninsula's flower!

The Sun pours down his caresses, while, all around, the Benaco

shines like a great silver cup

along whose rim is entwined a wreath of peaceful olive

mixed with the laurel eternal;

and so the radiant goblet Italia the Mother holds forth

with lofty arms to the gods;

and they from the skies have let thee fall in, O Sermio,

thee, the peninsular jewel!

Above, the paternal mountain boldly stands guard o'er thy beauty,

watching with gloomy eyebrow.

Beneath lies the land like a Titan slain in some desperate battle,

prostrate, but threatening revenge.

But along the curved shores of the bay at the left of the mountain

stretch out the fair white arms

like unto those of a child who, happy on entering the dance,

throws to the breeze her hair,

laughs, and with generous hand deals out her flowers right and left,

and crowns the chief youth with her garland.

Garda there, far below, lifts up her dusky shoulders

over the liquid mirror,

singing the while a saga of cities ancient and buried,

and their barbaric kings.

But here, O Lalage, whence, through the holy joys of the azure,

thou sendest thy soul-glance;

here Valerius Catullus moored to the wet rocks, of old,

his frail pitched canoe,

sat through the long days and watched in the waves, phosphorescent and tremulous,

the eyes of his Lesbia;

yea, and saw in those waves the changing moods of his Lesbia,

saw her perfidious smile,

the while she beguiled with her charms, through darksome haunts of the town,

the princely nephews of Romulus.

To him from the humid depths sang forth the nymph of the lake,

“Come to us, Quintus Valerius!

“Here to our grottoes descend still the sun rays, but silvery

and mild as those of Cynthia.

“Here the assiduous tumults that burden thy life but resemble

the distant humming of bees,

“and, in the silence cool, thy cares, all frenzied and fearful,

gently fade into oblivion.

“Here the fresh air, here the sleep, the soothing music and chorus

of the cerulean virgins,

“while Hesperus over the waters broadens his rosy face,

and the waves are lapping the shore.”

Alas for sad Love! how the Muses he hates; how the poet he shatters

with lust, or with jealousy kills!

But who from thine eyes and the wars they are plotting afar,

O Lalage, who shall protect?

Pluck for the Muses three boughs of sacred laurel and myrtle,

wave them in sunlight eternal!

Seest thou not from Peschiera how the flocks of white swans are swimming

down through the silvery Mincio?

Dost thou not hear from the green pastures where sleeps Bianore

the sound of Virgilius' voice?

O Lalage, turn and adore! From yonder tower of the Scaligers

looks out a face stern and grand.

“Suso in Italia bella,” smiling he murmurs, and looks

at the water, the earth, and the sky.

Odi Barbare.

Hail to thee, valiant steed! To thee the palm,

To thee its wild applause the ring is raising.

Who slanders thee sings an ignoble psalm,

In vain his own poor wit and judgment praising.

Thy body, fair as with no shining balm,

But with the spirit's inward ardour blazing,

Speeds to the prize. Then in what beauty calm

Dost thou stand still, upon thy rivals gazing!

Thou wouldst have been among the conquering

To gain for brave Automedon the pÆan

That once from Grecian lips did joyous ring!

O, that for thee might blaze the sands Elean,

For thee great hymns the godlike Pindar sing,

Following thee there upon the waves Alphaean!

Juvenilia.

In the midst of thy song, O Homer, with battles ever resounding,

the midsummer heat overcame me; my head fell asleep

there on Scamander's bank; but my heart fled at once,

as soon as set free, back again to the shore of Tyrrhenia.

I dreamed—dreamed pleasant things of the new years coming to me,

of books no more! My chamber, stifled with the heat of the July sun,

and noisy with the endless rolling of carriages in the streets,

opened wide. I dreamed myself among my hills,—

the dear forest hills which an April-time youth was reflowering.

A stream gushed down the hillside, widening into a brook

with murmuring cool, and along the brook wandered my mother,

still in the flower of her youth, and leading a child by the hand.

On his bare white shoulder lay shining his golden curls.

He walked with a childish step, but stately, too,

proud of the mother's love, and thrilled to the heart

with the great gladness of that Festival

which everywhere sweet Nature was intoning.

For high up in yon tower the bells were telling

that on the morrow Christ would rise again!

And over the hills and vales, through air and boughs and streams,

flowed everywhere the great Hymn of the Spring.

The apple-trees and the peach-trees were blossoming white and red,

underneath laughed the meadow with yellow flowers and blue;

the red trefoil was clambering up to cover the sloping fields,

and beyond the hills lay veiled in the glow of the golden broom.

From the sea below came up an odorous breeze;

on its waters four white sails rocked slowly to and fro in the sun,

whose dazzling rays were quivering over sea and land and sky.

I watched the happy mother walking in the sunlight;

I watched the mother: thoughtful I watched my brother,

him who now lies at rest on the flowering banks of the Arno,

while she is sleeping alone in the solemn shade of Certosa.

Thoughtful I gazed, and wondered if still they live,

and, mindful of my grief, come back from where

their happy years glide on 'mid forms well known.

So passed the vision blessed; quick with my nap it went—

· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·

Lauretta's joyous song was ringing through all the chambers,

and Bice, bending over her frame, followed silent the work of the needle.

Odi Barbare.

I remember the sun across the red vapours descending,

and falling into the sea like a great shield of brass,

which shines wavering over the bloody field of war,

then drops and is seen no more.

Little Castiglioncello, high amid heaps of oaks,

blushing in her glazed windows, returned a coquettish smile.

I, meanwhile, languid and sad [with fever still lingering in me,

and my nerves all heavy and lifeless as if they were weighted with lead],

looked from my window. Swiftly the swallows

wove and rewove their crooked flight around the eaves,

while in shadows malarious the brown sparrows were chattering.

Beyond the wood were the varied hills and the plain

partly razed by the scythe, partly still yellow and waving.

Away through the grey furrows rose the smoke of the smouldering stubble,

and whether or no did there come through the humid air

the song of the reapers, long, distant, mournful, and wearied?

Everywhere brooded a heaviness, in the air, in the woods, on the shore.

I gazed at the falling sun—“Proud light of the world,

Like a Cyclops heavy with wine thou lookest down on our life”—

Then screamed the peacocks, mocking me from among the pomegranates,

and a vagrant bat as it passed me grazed my head.

Odi Barbare.

Surely admired her the rosy day-dawn when,

summoning the farmers to the still grey fields,

it saw her barefooted, with quick step passing

among the dewy odours of the hay.

Heard her at midday the elm-trees white with dust,

as, with broad shoulders bent o'er the yellow winrows,

she challenges in cheery song the grasshoppers

whose hoarse chirping rings from the hot hillsides.

And when from her toil she lifted her turgid bosom,

her sunbrowned face with glossy curls surrounded,

how, then, thy vesper fires, O Tuscany,

did richly tinge with colour her bold figure!

'T is then the strong mother plays at ball with her infant,

the lusty child whom her naked breasts have just sated:

tosses him on high and prattles sweetly with him,

while he, with eye fixed on the shining eyes of his mother,

his little body trembling all over with fear, holds out

his tiny fingers imploring; then loud laughs the mother,

and into the one great embrace of love

lets him fall clasped close to her bosom.

Around her smiles the scene of homely labor;

tremulous nod the oats on the green hillsides;

one hears the distant mooing of the ox,

and on the barn roof the gay plumed cock is crowing.

· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·

Nature has her brave ones who for her despise

the masks of glory dear to the vulgar throng.

'T is thus, O Adrian, with holy visions

thou comfortest the souls of fellow-men.

'T is thus, O artist, with thy blow severe

thou putt'st in stone the ages' ancient hope,

the lofty hope that cries, “O when shall labor

be happy? and faithful love secure from harm?”

When shall a mighty nation of freemen

say in the face of the sun: “Shine no more

on the idle ease and the selfish wars of tyrants;

but on the pious justice of labour”—?

Odi Barbare.

My lonely bark beneath the seagull's screaming

Pursues her way across the stormy sea;

Around her mingle, in tumultuous glee,

The roar of waters and the lightning's gleaming.

And memory, down whose face the tears are streaming,

Looks for the shore it can no longer see;

While hope, that struggled long and wearily

With broken oar, at last gives up its dreaming.

Still at the helm erect my spirit stands,

Gazing at sea and sky, and bravely crying

Amid the howling winds and groaning strands:

Sail on, sail on, O crew, all fates defying,

Till at the gate of dark oblivion's lands

We see afar the white shores of the dying.

Juvenilia.

Couldst thou, O north wind, coming

From the deep bosom of the moaning valley,

Or, wandering in the aisles of songful pines,

Or through a lonely cloister's corridors,

Chant to me in a thousand sounds—

The piping of reeds, the roaring of wild beasts,

And cries of human woe!

That would be my delight, the while I know

On yon cold height there lies the winter's snow.

A shower of white darkness

Fills all the sleepy air; the snowy plain

Fades into the horizon far away.

Meanwhile, the sun's great disk grows faintly red

As wearily it sinks behind the clouds,

Staring as 'twere a lidless human eye.

No breeze, no breath among the hills is stirred,

Nor traveller's voice, nor song of children heard,

But the loud crash of branches

Too heavily bent by burden of the snow,

And sharp explosions of the cracking ice,

Arcadia sing and Zephyrus invite

To your sweet company in meadows fair.

Now nature's mute and haughty horror doth

Add zest to pleasure! Come, Eurilla, make

The drowsy coals a livelier sparkle take!

On me let them be casting

A light serenely flashing, such as spring

Doth carry with her wheresoever she goeth.

The mouthing actor

No more the boxes heed, when 'mid the sight

Of all that crowded brilliancy and beauty,

And perfumed tresses, and enwreathÉd flowers,

There comes the scent of April's fruitful showers.

O if, with living blood

From my heart streaming, I could thee restore,

Poor, frozen body of my little son!

But my heart dies within me,

And feeble is the hold of my embraces,

And man is deaf and God above too high.

Lay, my poor little one, thy tear-wet cheek

Close to thy mother's whilst I with thee speak.

Not so thy brother lay;

Hardly he drew amid the stifling snow

His failing breath, as on his way he crept.

After the toilsome day,

Beneath a heavy load, his little steps

Failed to keep even pace with th' hurrying men,

While the rough path and the night's stormy frown

Conspired with man to drag his courage down.

The gusts of whirling snow

Beat through his ragged clothes, his wearied limbs.

He falls, and, bleeding, tries to lift himself,

But 'tis in vain; and hunger

Now drains his little strength, and at the end

Of the dolorous way he gives the struggle over;

Then pious Death comes down and looks upon

The bruisÉd form; and from its grave of snow

Home to the mother's roof they bring it so.

Alas! with better reason

The eagle flies for refuge from the blast

Unto her eyrie on the jagged cliff,

And the aged beast to his cave.

A kennel warm protects the mastiff's sleep,

Full fed, within the palace there, near by

To where, O child, born of love's mightier breath,

An icy hand leads thee away to death.

Pour! and keep on pouring,

The vintage which the ancient Rhine doth yield,

Crowned with her hundred castles!

Let it foam and bubble

Forth to our sight, and then deep in the breast

Tell what rare treasure hath the sun matured

Within the hills which well may England crave,

And France, land of good wines and heroes brave!

Then let the maddening dance

Whirl thee away! O what a waving sea

Of tresses blond and dark all proudly blending!

O the hot breath that mingles

Itself with thine! O roses quickly faded!

O eyes that know to exchange the hasty flash

The while, of a thousand mingled notes the strain

Pours forth the sigh of pleasure acute to pain!

O sweet deflowering

Of burning cheeks, and pressure of hand in hand,

The hurried beating of the breast near breast,

The cunning strategy,

Now in the ear to lodge the precious secret,

The little parleys carried on by smiles,

The sweet imagining of joys that hide

'Neath her shy glance one presses at his side.

See how from these our feasts

The common people get the benefit,

And civil charity finds large increase!

Thanks to the heavenly power

That ill and good allots, a judgment stern

Has easement in a graceful piety;

And we the happy progeny of mirth,

Shed like the sun a radiance o'er the earth!

The bread gave out, the work

Fell off on which did hang our life,

And trembling sat before the fireless hearth

My mother, and watched me.

Pale was the face and mute with some great fear

The while she watched: until, as if pursued

By that mute stare, after the long, long day

I could endure no more, and stole away.

Down through the winter's mist

Poured the high moon a livid radiance

Above the muddy alley, then disappeared

Behind the clouds. So did

The light of youth but shine to disappear

Upon the sorrow-mingled pathway of my life.

A hand touched me. I felt a foul glance fall

Upon me, and words that did my heart appal.

Appal! but more appalling

The hunger, O ye proud ones, that did drive me,

And the old mother's mute and maddening stare!

And so it came that I took bread to her!

But all desire for me her fast had stilled.

Hardly on me she raised her heavy eyes,

While I on my poor mother's breast would claim

A place where I might hide my face and shame.

Adieu, O tearful visions

Of a once holy love and you, the fond

Companions of a maiden most unhappy!

For you may shine the whiteness

Of that pure veil the mother, weeping, binds!

For you the thought that to the cradle turns;—

I, to my sin abandoned, keep me near

The track of darkness and, so, disappear.

Be still, thou maiden sad,

Be still, O grieving mother, and thou, child,

Found starving, when shut down the night's great gloom!

Behold! what festive lights

Gleam in the palace windows, where unite

The ruling orders of our favoured land,

And magistrates and soldiers of renown,

And doctors, mix with merchants of the town.

The bloom of thy best years

Thou spoilest, girl, while thou dost pine in vain

For that sweet love and life that all desire.

Laugh rather, and be gay,

In dazzling robes of silk and gold held up

By hand fair as a countess's, while you haste

To join the dance! Then weep and wait—what for?

The garb of shame that's waiting at thy door!

As if the tears had frozen

Between the eyelids of the dying boy

Whom thou couldst not revive, O wretched mother,

And turned to precious gems,

So shines the fillet in the dame's black hair,

With whom the economist, gallant and suave,

Holds speech! His lips a smile do wear,

As if a kiss each honied word did bear.

Seize and enjoy your triumph,

O Masks! so happy and so powerful.

And when the coming dawn drives folk to work,

Go out and show yourselves,

Belching your ill-digested orgies forth;

Flaunting your pomp before their humble fast;

Nor dream the day when, at your gilded gate,

Grim Hunger and his brother Death shall wait.

Levia Gravia.

If far from turbid thoughts and gloomy mood

Some smiling day should see my wish fulfilled

Where breathe the vales with gentle brooks enrilled

The soft air of my Tuscan neighbourhood,

There, where is heard no more the garrulous brood

Of thoughtless minds, in deep oblivion stilled,

Would I to thee my heart's pure altar build

In the green blackness of the tangled wood.

There with the dying splendours of the sun

Thy song should glow amid the flowers springing

On breezy banks where whispering streams do run;

As if, still sweeter sounds and odours flinging

Upward to heaven when the day is done,

A nightingale from bough to bough were singing.

Levia Gravia.

O Terence of the Adria, to whose pen

Italia's land did give such vengeful power

That, as from rebel soil a noble flower,

So rose alive the Latin soul again.

See! where should rule a race of noble men,

Sharing in righteous deal their bounteous dower,

There art, beshadowed with base passion's glower,

Goes reeling to the jeering harlot's den!

Laugh! and drive out these Goths, and of their shame

Tear down the altars, and to the muse impart

The laurel crown the ancients loved to view.

But no! To-day thou hast no dower but blame;

And the base crowd proclaims in vileness new

How low has fallen our Italian art!

Juvenilia.

O supreme wrestler on Italia's plains!

See how a race grown feeble and despairing,

Even from thee the sacred laurel tearing,

The rising of thy holy wrath restrains!

To what high prize thou hold'st the guiding reins,

Whither aloft the stars with thee are faring,

The while the age, to its vile feasts repairing,

Each day tastes viands new and still complains.

“Ungrateful world, O son; and made still worse

By listless souls who on their way proceed

With neither word of chiding nor of praising.

And where to evil thought is linked the curse

Of instincts vile, what heart or mind can read

Those distant heights on which my soul is gazing!”

Juvenilia.

When burst thy rapid songs from out a brain

A god had struck, his ready kindred knowing,

In mighty flood like that which from the plain

Of Eridanus to the sea is going,

Then rose the immortal siren whose domain

Holds Virgil's ashes, and her breath bestowing

As from an ancient urn disturbed again,

Sweet harmonies as of lyres and reeds were flowing.

Along the circling shores its measures flinging

Came as of bees hid in Ravenna's gloom

The Tuscan verse of Dante softly ringing;

The Po sent back its trumpet note of doom.

Thou ceased. No more was heard the holy singing,

Virgil was still, and Allighieri's tomb.

Juvenilia.

The time will come when the ancient mother, raising

Her eyes upon the examples of the past,

Shall see our land its lot with virtue cast,

And virtuous souls virtue as friend appraising.

But now, from where the Alpine herds are grazing

To far Sicilian shore, in slumber fast

Like jealous nurse she lulls them to the last,

Lest they should wake and on those forms be gazing.

What worth to thee our feeble note of praise,

Only the people's lullaby to mar?

To thee but shame, to us but harm befalling!

O happy those who 'mid the din of war,

On thee, a prophet worthy of better days,

With Dante and Vittorio shall be calling!

Juvenilia.

O great Ones born in that our Nation's hour

To which the world did long look back admiring

As to a springtime when the heavens' inspiring

Poured equal gifts of anger, love, and power,

For slavery has Italia sold her dower,

And feasts with those against her weal conspiring;

At your high shrines in vain were my requiring

Of what may soothe the griefs that on me lower.

The present race such ancestry belying

Seeks but the ease of death, as in its tomb.

Here lives, and only here, the ancient Nation!

And here I stay shivering amid the gloom,

Breathing upon the world my imprecation,

Doomed to live ever by my scorn undying.

Juvenilia.

O school of vileness, treachery and lying,

“Asylum of the oppressed,” in evil days

Sounding to heaven the cruel oppressor's praise,

While God and King and Fatherland denying!

O wicked was your heartless justifying,

Your benediction on the torturer's blaze,

Your curses on the doomed who dared to raise

A voice against thy tyranny outcrying.

Ready the Empire's brutal force to crave,

Thou smil'st upon its prize unjustly won;

God's prophet is become a lying knave.

O saddest day the sun e'er shone upon

When cowers the Cross, the standard of the slave,

And Christ is made the tyrant's champion!

Juvenilia.

Hark! In the temple the voice of God is sounding.

“O people of one speech and one endeavour

Yours is the land with my best gifts abounding

Whereon the smile of heaven is resting ever!

“Away the armed hosts your gates surrounding!

The barbarous hordes that come your speech to sever,

To raze the fortunes of your fathers' founding,

And call you slaves! That will I pardon never!

“Rather within your tombs the flame be stirred

As from an awful flash in heaven burning,

Such as gave forth the Maccabean's word.”

Hail Voice divine! be ours the quick discerning

Of what thy message means: in thee be heard

Savonarola's spirit to us returning!

Juvenilia.

O born when over my poor roof did pass

hope like a homeless, wandering nightingale,

and I, disdainful of the present world,

knocked fretful at the portals of the morrow;

now that I stand as at my journey's end,

and see around my threshold flocking come,

in turn, the jackdaws' noisy company,

screaming their flattering plaudits at my door;

't is thou, my dove, dost steal thyself away,

willing a new nest for thyself to weave

beyond the Apennines, where thou may'st feel

the native sweet air of the Tuscan hills.

Go then with love; go then with joy: O go

with all thy pure white faith! The eye

grows dim in gazing at the flying sail.

Meanwhile my Camena is still and thinks,—

thinks of the days when thou, my little one,

went gathering flowers beneath the acacia-trees,

and she who led thee gently by the hand

was reading visions fanciful in heaven,—

thinks of the days when over thy soft tresses

were breathed in the wild ecstasy of freedom

my strophes aimed against the oligarchs

and the base cringing slaves of Italy.

Meanwhile didst thou grow on, a thoughtful virgin,

and she our country with intrepid step

began to climb the lofty heights of art,

to plant thereon the flag of liberty.

Looks back and thinks!—Across the path of years

With thee shall it be sweet one day to dream

the old sweet dreams again, while gazing fondly

upon the smiling faces of thy sons?

Or shall it be my better destiny

to fight on till the sacred summons comes?

Then, O my daughter, let no Beatrice

my soul upon its heavenward flight attend,—

then, on that way where Homer of the Greeks

and Christian Dante long ago did pass,

there be thy gentle look my only guide,

thy voice familiar all my company.

Not since when on me a child

Heaven's gracious radiance smiled

Hast thou, O Sun, such splendour poured

As on my friend's Livornian board.

Never, O God of Feasts, was sent

A solace so benevolent

As wisely glowed within the wines

We drank beneath the Apennines.

O Sun, O Bromius, grant that whole

In loving heart and virtuous soul

We to the quiet shades descend

(Where Horace is)—I and my friend.

Thy fortune smile upon the young

Like flowers around our banquet flung;

Peace to the mothers give, and fame

To valiant youth and love's sweet flame!

Odi Barbare.

Strong forms were those of the New Life, that stood

Around thy cradle,

O Master of the song that looks above!

A brave young giantess,

Unknown before to Greek or Latin shores,

Daring in love and hate, and fair withal,

Came Tuscan Libertade, and the child

Already with bounteous breast did comfort thee.

And all a-glowing with her spheral rays,

Mild and austere in one,

Came Faith: and she, across a shore

Obscure with crowds of visions and of shades,

Opened for thee the Gate of the Infinite.

Sighing and pensive, yet with locks aglow

With rosy splendour from another air,

Love made long stay.

And such the gentle things

He talked to thee with bashful lips, so sweetly

He entered all the chambers of thy heart,

That no one ever knew to love like thee.

But soon away from lonely meditating,

O youthful recluse,

Wild clamour and fierce tumult tore thee, and

The fury of brothers seeking brothers' blood.

Thou heard'st the hissing flames of civil war

On neighbour's walls; thou heardest women shriek

To heaven that altars and the marriage bed,

The dear hearth-stone and the infant's cradle,—

All that made fair the marital abode,

Were swept away in one great gulf of flame.

Their men had rushed from their embrace to arms;

The youth breathed only anger and destruction.

Thou sawest the raging of swords

Seeking the breast-plunge;

Thou heardest the dying warrior

Blaspheme and curse:

Before thee, streaming with gore,

Gold locks and grey;

And the Furies offering

To Liberty the execrated host

Of human victims;

And Death, the cruel arbiter of fates,

Crumbling the mighty towers and opening

The long-barred gates.

Amid wild scenes

So grew thy Italian soul,

And prayed that the long civil hate might end.

Meanwhile he saw

Of love such pure revealings and so strange,

The which depicted in the shade

Of a young myrtle-tree,

Each one who saw must bow the head in reverence.

But o'er this gentle dream

There came the voice of weeping,

Bitterly sounding from the maternal source.

Alas! broken by the whirlwind,

Lies the fair myrtle,

And with wide-spread wings

The dove of sweet affection is flown forth

To seek a purer aura for its flight.

He, driven here and there

In the thick darkness of the turbulent age,

Sought refuge with the famous shades of old;

So learned to hate himself and present things.

And in the twilight came he forth a giant,

Seeming a shade himself—an angry shade

Who through the desert went from tomb to tomb,

Now questioning and now embracing them:

Until before him rose across the ruin

And dust of these barbaric ages gone,

Like a cloudy pillar, the ancient Latin valour.

Then all that such a ruin tells did burst

Upon the silent air in one great cry.

In the exalted vision

Arose the poet divine; and now, disdaining

His stricken land and time that only wasted

In petty aimless strife the ancient strength,

He, in the seeing of his heart's desire,

Saluted thee, O modern Italy,—

One, in thy valiant arms, thy laws, thy speech.

And then, to truly tell

What such a vision meant, he sought to know

The life that rolls through all the sea of being.

From beneath the dust of buried centuries

He made things good and ill to tell their tale

Through him the fatal prophet: till his voice

Resounded through the world, and made the ages

Turn and behold themselves. Judge and lord,

He placed them where they could themselves behold,

Admired and wept, disdained and laughed at them;

Then shut them up in his eternal song,

Well pleased that he had power to do this much.

And meanwhile this poor tangle

Where the weeping and the wailing still goes on,

This endless fraud and shadow

Which has the name of life and is so base,—

All this didst thou despise! Thy sacred muse

Explored the depths of all the universe.

Following the good gentile Philosopher

Who placed thee in the midst of secret things,

Thou didst desire to see as angels see

There where there is no intervening veil;

And thou wouldst love as they do love in heaven.

Up through the ways of love

The humble creature

Pushing his way to the Creator's presence,

Wished to find rest in that eternal Truth

Which taught thee the great love and the great thought.

Here Virgil failed thee,

And thou, deserted,

A lonely human spirit as if drowned

Within the abyss of thy immense desire,

Didst vanish overwhelmed in doubt,—

When as on wings

Angelical there came unto thy grief

She who is love and light and vision

Between the understanding and the True.

No mortal tongue like mine may give her name,

But thou who lovedst didst call her Beatrice.

And so from sphere to sphere

'T was naught but melody that thou didst hear,

'T was naught but one great light that thou didst see,

And every single sense thou hadst was love,

And verse and spirit made one harmony

Like unto her who there revealed herself.

Alas! what caredst thou then

For thy poor country and the endless strife

That rent its cities like, alas! even those

That make forever dark the vales of hell!

From heaven descending thou didst thrice bring down

The Hymn Supreme, and all the while there shone

Upon thy brow a radiance divine

Like his who spake with God in Sinai.

Before thee shining

In all the splendour of the holy Kingdom

Flashed in its crimson light the mortal field

Of Montaperto, and along the wastes

Deserted and malignant came the sound,

Dreary and dull, of dying warriors' sighs:

To which far off responded

With a great cry of mingled human woe

The cursed battle-field of Campaldino.

And thou, Rea Meloria,

Didst rise from the Tuscan sea

To tell the glory of this horrid slaughter,

And of the Thyrrenian shores made desolate

With this our madness, and the sea's great bosom

All stained with blood, and far Liguria's strand

Filled with the moan of lonely Pisan exiles

And children born for fratricidal war.

· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·

Juvenilia.

I saw him, from the uncovered tomb uplifting

His mighty form, the imperial prophet stand.

Then shook the Adrian shore, and all the land

Italia trembled as at an earthquake drifting.

Like morning mist from purest ether sifting,

It marched along the Apenninian strand,

Glancing adown the vales on either hand,

Then vanished like the dawn to daylight shifting.

Meanwhile in earthly hearts a fear did rise,

The awful presence of a god discerning,

To which no mortal dared to lift the eyes.

But where, beyond the gates, the sun is burning,

The races dead of warlike men and wise

With joy saluted the great soul's returning.

Levia Gravia.

The shining face

Smiled straight into the skies;

A rosy glow was on her archÉd neck;

Her radiant brow,

Lofty, serene, and fair,

And her glance like a rose new-blown,

And the fresh smile

Of pure youth,

Awakened in the heart new ecstasies:

But awe-inspiring

And with fear entrancing

Was her presence.

Floating on the wind

In the morning air

Was her sky-blue mantle, her white veil.

Like Our Lady from heaven

She passed before me,

An angel in seeming and yet all so ardent.

My mind stopped thinking

But to look at her,

And the soul was at rest—but for sighing.

Then said I: O how or when

Did earth deserve

That such a mark of love be given her?

What reckless ancestors

Gave thee to the world?

What age ever bore so fair a thing as thou?

What serener star

Produced thy form?

What love divine evolved thee from its light?

Easily the ways of man

Following the blessed guidance

Of thee, Beatrice, were all made new!

—“Not a woman, but the Idea

Am I, which heaven did offer

For man to study when seeking things on high.

“When hearts, not wholly cooled

Of their potential fires,

Fought hard with life severe, and with the truth,

“And to the valiant thinking

And courageous hope

Faith and true love lent arms of constancy,—

“Then, from my airy seat descending,

Among these gallant souls I came,

Kindled and kept alive their ardent zeal;

“And, faithful to my champions,

Clasped in their mighty embrace,

I made them worship Death—yea, and Defeat,

“While, traced by dreamy souls

In verse and colours,

I wandered through the laurels on Arno's banks.

“In vain you look for me

'Mong your poor household gods—

No Bice Portinari—I am the Idea!”

Juvenilia.

These were the days when first I saw her growing

Like bud to flower in the time of spring,

Her figure such a sweet and lovely thing

As if one heard love's richest music flowing.

The bashful blushes on her cheeks were showing

What native grace her gentle speech could bring;

As on smooth seas the stars their radiance fling,

So in her laughing eyes the soul was glowing.

'T was such I saw her. Now with mad desire

As in a world of stifling air alone

I wander, weak and worn with my inquiring,

Till strength remains only her name to moan

As with each breath I feel my life expiring:

O Light of all my years, where art thou flown?

· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·

Juvenilia.

I am not he who amid wine cups flowing

Rouses to joy the festive board of friends:

Heavy with bitter weariness is going

The time that to my mind no banquet sends.

Anger alone is that fierce life bestowing

Over whose board my heart all ravenous bends.

O fair green years when brightest hopes were growing

That now lie withered as when summer ends!

Even the charm of sweet imagination

No more its soul-beguiling power retains,

But in its place stands life, mute, dread, appalling,

And over all a shade whose intonation

As if of grief that it alone remains

To some still shore afar is ever calling.

· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·

Juvenilia.

A child in gardens, fields, and city squares

I grew 'mid war's alarms and love's alluring;

But manhood's school of mysteries and cares

Enticed me to the temple's dark immuring.

Where now the lofty dames, with glance securing

What free-born knight or brave civilian dares?

Bright April days the roses bloom assuring?

The oak that through the castle rampart stares?

Poor and alone, again to that dear dwelling

I come where pious love did once deny

That I should heed the Enchantress' sweet impelling.

Open! O Child: though be the times awry,

Thy vision, Beatrice, wakes my heart's rebelling,—

Open! The Tuscan poesy am I!

Levia Gravia.

Like as an infant, beaten by its mother

or but half conquered in a wayward quarrel,

tired, falls asleep, with its little fists

tight clenched and with tear-wet eyelids,—

So does my passion, O fair Lalage,

sleep in my bosom; nor thinking, nor caring,

whether in rosy May-time wander playing

the other happy infants in the sun.

O wake 't not, Lalage! or thou shalt hear

my passion, like a very God of battles,

putting an end to sports so innocent,

to flay the very heavens with its raging!

Odi Barbare.

Breaking his way through the white clouds in the azure,

The sun laughs out and cries:

“O Springtime, come!”

Across the greening hills with placid murmurs

The streams sing back to the breeze:

“O Springtime, come!”

“O Springtime, come!” to his heart the poet is saying,

While gazing, O pure Lalage, in thine eyes!

Odi Barbare.

Slowly the snow-flakes fall through the ashen heavens: no clamour

nor sound whatever comes up from the street.

No cry of the vender of fruits, no rumbling of cart-wheels,

no ballad of love wailing forth from the lips of youth.

Hoarse from the towers of the square the hours groan out,—

Sighs that come from a world far remote from our daylight.

Birds, that homeless wander, peck at the darkened window:

Souls of the lost ones returning! they watch me and call me to them.

Shortly, O dear Ones, shortly—Heart! tame thy restless rebelling—

down to your silence, down to your peaceful shades will I come!

Odi Barbare.