List of poems

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.

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.

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.

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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![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.