: The Poems of Giacomo Leopardi by Leopardi Giacomo Townsend Frederick Translator - Italian poetry Translations into English Best Books Ever Listings

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Dedication.

To my Friends in Tuscany:

Leopardi.

TO ITALY.

ON DANTE'S MONUMENT, 1818.

Though all the nations now Peace gathers under her white wings, The minds of Italy will ne'er be free From the restraints of their old lethargy, Till our ill-fated land cling fast Unto the glorious memories of the Past. Oh, lay it to thy heart, my Italy, Fit honor to thy dead to pay; For, ah, their like walk not thy streets to-day! Nor is there one whom thou canst reverence! Turn, turn, my country, and behold That noble band of heroes old, And weep, and on thyself thy anger vent, For without anger, grief is impotent: Oh, turn, and rouse thyself for shame, Blush at the thought of sires so great, Of children so degenerate!

Alien in mien, in genius, and in speech, The eager guest from far Went searching through the Tuscan soil to find Where he reposed, whose verse sublime Might fitly rank with Homer's lofty rhyme; And oh! to our disgrace he heard Not only that, e'er since his dying day, In other soil his bones in exile lay, But not a stone within thy walls was reared To him, O Florence, whose renown Caused thee to be by all the world revered. Thanks to the brave, the generous band, Whose timely labor from our land Will this sad, shameful stain remove! A noble task is yours, And every breast with kindred zeal hath fired, That is by love of Italy inspired.

May love of Italy inspire you still, Poor mother, sad and lone, To whom no pity now In any breast is shown, Now, that to golden days the evil days succeed. May pity still, ye children dear, Your hearts unite, your labors crown, And grief and anger at her cruel pain, As on her cheeks and veil the hot tears rain! But how can I, in speech or song, Your praises fitly sing, To whose mature and careful thought, The work superb, in your proud task achieved, Will fame immortal bring? What notes of cheer can I now send to you, That may unto your ardent souls appeal, And add new fervor to your zeal?

Thou for thyself no joy wouldst feel, But for thy native land, If the example of their sires Could in the cold and sluggish sons Renew once more the ancient fires, That they might lift their heads in pride again. Alas, with what protracted sufferings Thou seest her afflicted, that, e'en then Did seem to know no end, When thou anew didst unto Paradise ascend! Reduced so low, that, as thou seest her now, She then a happy Queen appeared. Such misery her heart doth grieve, As, seeing, thou canst not thy eyes believe. And oh, the last, most bitter blow of all, When on the ground, as she in anguish lay, It seemed, indeed, thy country's dying day!

But she rebukes you not, Ah, no, but these alone, Who forced you with her to contend; And still her bitter tears she blends with yours, In wretchedness that knows no end. Oh that some pity in the heart were born, For her, who hath all other glories won, Of one, who from this dark, profound abyss, Her weak and weary feet could guide! Thou glorious shade, oh! say, Does no one love thy Italy? Say, is the flame that kindled thee extinct? And will that myrtle never bloom again, That hath so long consoled us in our pain? Must all our garlands wither in the dust? And shall we a redeemer never see, Who may, in part, at least, resemble thee?

Are we forever lost? Is there no limit to our shame? I, while I live, will never cease to cry: "Degenerate race, think of thy ancestry! Behold these ruins vast, These pictures, statues, temples, poems grand! Think of the glories of thy native land! If they thy soul cannot inspire or warn, Why linger here? Arise! Begone! This holy ground must not be thus defiled, And must no shelter give Unto the coward and the slave! Far better were the silence of the grave!"

TO ANGELO MAI,

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