Read Ebook: The Poems of Giacomo Leopardi by Leopardi Giacomo Townsend Frederick Translator

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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,

ON HIS DISCOVERY OF THE LOST BOOKS OF CICERO, "DE REPUBLICA."

Italian bold, why wilt thou never cease The fathers from their tombs to summon forth? Why bring them, with this dead age to converse, That stifled is by enemies and by sloth? And why dost thou, voice of our ancestors, That hast so long been mute, Resound so loud and frequent in our ears? Why all these grand discoveries? As in a flash the fruitful pages come, What hath this wretched age deserved, That dusty cloisters have for it reserved These hidden treasures of the wise and brave? Illustrious man, with what strange power Does Fate thy ardent zeal befriend? Or does Fate vainly with man's will contend?

Without the lofty counsel of the gods, It surely could not be, that now, When we were never sunk so low, In desperate oblivion of the Past, Each moment, comes a cry renewed, From our great sires, to shake our souls, at last! Heaven still some pity shows for Italy; Some god hath still our happiness at heart: Since this, or else no other, is the hour, Italian virtue to redeem, And its old lustre once more to impart, These pleading voices from the grave we hear; Forgotten heroes rise from earth again, To see, my country, if at this late day, Thou still art pleased the coward's part to play.

Thou noble spirit, if no others care For our great Fathers' fame, oh, care thou still, Thou, to whom Fate hath so benignant been, That those old days appear again, When, roused from dire oblivion's tomb, Came forth, with all the treasures of their lore, Those ancient bards, divine, with whom Great Nature spake, but still behind her veil, And with her mysteries graced The holidays of Athens and of Rome. O times, now buried in eternal sleep! Our country's ruin was not then complete; We then a life of wretched sloth disdained; Still from our native soil were borne afar, Some sparks of genius by the passing air.

Thy holy ashes still were warm, Whom hostile fortune ne'er unmanned; Unto whose anger and whose grief, Hell was more grateful than thy native land. Ah, what, but hell, has Italy become? And thy sweet cords Still trembled at the touch of thy right hand, Unhappy bard of love. Alas, Italian song is still the child Of sorrow born. And yet, less hard to bear, Consuming grief than dull vacuity! O blessed thou, whose life was one lament! Disgust and nothingness are still our doom, And by our cradle sit, and on our tomb.

But thy life, then, was with the stars and sea, Liguria's hardy son, When thou, beyond the columns and the shores, Where oft, at set of sun, The waves are heard to hiss, As he into their depths has plunged, Committed to the boundless deep, Didst find again the sun's declining ray, The new-born day didst find, When it from us had passed away; Defying Nature's every obstacle, A land unknown didst win, the glorious spoils Of all thy perils, all thy toils. And yet, when known, the world seems smaller still; And earth and ocean, and the heavenly sphere More vast unto the child, than to the sage appear.

Where now are all the charming dreams Of the mysterious retreats Of dwellers unto us unknown, Or where, by day, the stars to rest have gone, Or of the couch remote of Eos bright, Or of the sun's mysterious sleep at night? They, in an instant, vanished all; A little chart portrays this earthly ball. Lo, all things are alike; discovery But proves the way for dull vacuity. Farewell to thee, O Fancy, dear, If plain, unvarnished truth appear! Thought more and more is still estranged from thee; Thy power so mighty once, will soon be gone, And our poor, wounded hearts be left forlorn.

Torquato, O Torquato, heaven to us The rich gift of thy genius gave, to thee Nought else but misery. Ill-starred Torquato, whom thy song, So sweet, could not console, Nor melt the ice, to which The genial current of thy soul Was turned, by private envy, princely hate; And then, by Love abandoned, life's last dream! To thee, nought real seemed but nothingness, The world a dreary wilderness. Too late the honors came, so long deferred; And yet, to die was unto thee a gain. Who knows the evils of our mortal state, Demands but death, no garland asks, of Fate.

Return, return to us, Rise from thy silent, dreary tomb, And feast thine eyes on our distress, O thou, whose life was crowned with wretchedness! Far worse than what appeared to thee so sad And infamous, have all our lives become. Dear friend, who now would pity thee, When none save for himself hath thought or care? Who would not thy keen anguish folly call, When all things great and rare the name of folly bear? When envy, no, but worse than envy, far, Indifference pervades our rulers all? Ah, who would now, when we all think Of song so little, and so much of gain, A laurel for thy brow prepare again?

Ah, since thy day, there has appeared but one, Who has the fame of Italy redeemed: Too good for his vile age, he stands alone; One of the fierce Allobroges, Whose manly virtue was derived Direct from heavenly powers, Not from this dry, unfruitful earth of ours; Whence he alone, unarmed,-- O matchless courage!--from the stage, Did war upon the ruthless tyrants wage; The only war, the only weapon left, Against the crimes and follies of the age. First, and alone, he took the field: None followed him; all else were cowards tame, Lost to all sense of honor, or of shame.

TO HIS SISTER PAOLINA,

ON HER APPROACHING MARRIAGE.

Thy sons must either poor, or cowards be. Prefer them poor. It is the custom still. Desert and fortune never yet were friends; The strife between them never ends. Unhappy they, who in these evil days Are born when all things totter to their fall! But that we must to heaven leave. Be this, above all things, thy care, Thy children still to rear, As those who court not Fortune's smiles, Nor playthings are of idle hope, or fear: And so the future age will call them blessed; For, in this slothful and deceitful world, The living virtue ever we despise, The dead we load with eulogies.

Love is the spur to noble deeds, To him its worth who knows; And beauty still to lofty love inspires. Love never in his spirit glows, Whose heart exults not in his breast, When angry winds in fight descend, And heaven gathers all its clouds, And mountain crests the lightnings rend. O wives, O maidens, he Who shrinks from danger, turns his back upon His country in her need, and only seeks His base desires and appetites to feed, Excites your hatred and your scorn; If ye for men, and not for milk-sops, feel The glow of love o'er your soft bosoms steal.

The mothers of unwarlike sons O may ye ne'er be called! Your children still inure For virtue's sake all trials to endure; To scorn the vices of this wretched age; To cherish loyal thoughts, and high desires; And learn how much they owe unto their sires. The sons of Sparta thus became, Amid the memories of heroes old, Deserving of the Grecian name; While the young spouse the trusty sword Upon the loved one's side would gird, And, afterwards, with her black locks, The bloodless, naked corpse concealed, When homeward borne upon the faithful shield.

Virginia, thy soft cheek In Beauty's finest mould was framed; But thy disdain Rome's haughty lord inflamed. How lovely wast thou, in thy youth's sweet prime, When the rough dagger of thy sire Thy snowy breast did smite, And thou, a willing victim, didst descend Into realms of night! "May old age wither and consume my frame, O father,"--thus she said; "And may they now for me the tomb prepare, E'er I the impious bed Of that foul tyrant share: And if my blood new life and liberty May give to Rome, by thy hand let me die!"

Ah, in those better days When more propitious shone the sun than now, Thy tomb, dear child, was not left comfortless, But honored with the tears of all. Behold, around thy lovely corpse, the sons Of Romulus with holy wrath inflamed; Behold the tyrants locks with dust besmeared; In sluggish breasts once more The sacred name of Liberty revered; Behold o'er all the subjugated earth, The troops of Latium march triumphant forth, From torrid desert to the gloomy pole. And thus eternal Rome, That had so long in sloth oblivious lain, A daughter's sacrifice revives again.

TO A VICTOR IN THE GAME OF PALLONE.

The face of glory and her pleasant voice, O fortunate youth, now recognize, And how much nobler than effeminate sloth Are manhood's tested energies. Take heed, O generous champion, take heed, If thou thy name by worthy thought or deed, From Time's all-sweeping current couldst redeem; Take heed, and lift thy heart to high desires! The amphitheatre's applause, the public voice, Now summon thee to deeds illustrious; Exulting in thy lusty youth. In thee, to-day, thy country dear Beholds her heroes old again appear.

And will you call that vain, which seeks The latent sparks of virtue to evolve, Or animate anew to high resolve, The drooping fervor of our weary souls? What but a game have mortal works e'er been, Since Phoebus first his weary wheels did urge? And is not truth, no less than falsehood, vain? And yet, with pleasing phantoms, fleeting shows, Nature herself to our relief has come; And custom, aiding nature, still must strive These strong illusions to revive; Or else all thirst for noble deeds is gone, Is lost in sloth, and blind oblivion.

The time may come, perchance, when midst The ruins of Italian palaces, Will herds of cattle graze, And all the seven hills the plough will feel; Not many years will have elapsed, perchance, E'er all the towns of Italy Will the abode of foxes be, And dark groves murmur 'mid the lofty walls; Unless the Fates from our perverted minds Remove this sad oblivion of the Past; And heaven by grateful memories appeased, Relenting, in the hour of our despair, The abject nations, ripe for slaughter, spare.

But thou, O worthy youth, wouldst grieve, Thy wretched country to survive. Thou once through her mightst have acquired renown, When on her brow she wore the glittering crown, Now lost! Our fault, and Fate's! That time is o'er; Ah, such a mother who could honor, more? But for thyself, O lift thy thoughts on high! What is our life? A thing to be despised: Least wretched, when with perils so beset, It must, perforce, its wretched self forget, Nor heed the flight of slow-paced, worthless hours; Or, when, to Lethe's dismal shore impelled, It hath once more the light of day beheld.

THE YOUNGER BRUTUS.

When in the Thracian dust uprooted lay, In ruin vast, the strength of Italy, And Fate had doomed Hesperia's valleys green, And Tiber's shores, The trampling of barbarian steeds to feel, And from the leafless groves, On which the Northern Bear looks down, Had called the Gothic hordes, That Rome's proud walls might fall before their swords; Exhausted, wet with brothers' blood, Alone sat Brutus, in the dismal night; Resolved on death, the gods implacable Of heaven and hell he chides, And smites the listless, drowsy air With his fierce cries of anger and despair.

"Who storms the gates of Tartarus, Offends the gods. Such valor does not suit, forsooth, Their soft, eternal bosoms; no? Or are our toils and miseries, And all the anguish of our hearts, A pleasant sport, their leisure to beguile? Yet no such life of crime and wretchedness, But pure and free as her own woods and fields, Nature to us prescribed; a queen And goddess once. Since impious custom, now, Her happy realm hath scattered to the winds, And other laws on this poor life imposed, Will Nature of fool-hardiness accuse The manly souls, who such a life refuse?

"Of crime, and their own sufferings ignorant, Serene old age the beasts conducts Unto the death they ne'er foresee. But if, by misery impelled, they sought To dash their heads against the rugged tree, Or, plunging headlong from the lofty rock, Their limbs to scatter to the winds. No law mysterious, misconception dark, Would the sad wish refuse to grant. Of all that breathe the breath of life, You, only, children of Prometheus, feel That life a burden hard to bear; Yet, would you seek the silent shores of death, If sluggish fate the boon delay, To you, alone, stern Jove forbids the way.

"Behold, amid the naked rocks, Or on the verdant bough, the beast and bird, Whose breasts are ne'er by thought or memory stirred, Of the vast ruin take no heed, Or of the altered fortunes of the world; And when the humble herdsman's cot Is tinted with the earliest rays of dawn, The one will wake the valleys with his song, The other, o'er the cliffs, the frightened throng Of smaller beasts before him drive. O foolish race! Most wretched we, of all! Nor are these blood-stained fields, These caverns, that our groans have heard, Regardful of our misery; Nor shines one star less brightly in the sky. Not the deaf kings of heaven or hell, Or the unworthy earth, Or night, do I in death invoke, Or thee, last gleam the dying hour that cheers, The voice of coming ages. I no tomb Desire, to be with sobs disturbed, or with The words and gifts of wretched fools adorned. The times grow worse and worse; And who, unto a vile posterity, The honor of great souls would trust, Or fit atonement for their wrongs? Then let the birds of prey around me wheel: And let my wretched corpse The lightning blast, the wild beast tear; And let my name and memory melt in air!"

TO THE SPRING.

OR OF THE FABLES OF THE ANCIENTS.

Now that the sun the faded charms Of heaven again restores, And gentle zephyr the sick air revives, And the dark shadows of the clouds Are put to flight, And birds their naked breasts confide Unto the wind, and the soft light, With new desire of love, and with new hope, The conscious beasts, in the deep woods, Amid the melting frosts, inspires; May not to you, poor human souls, Weary, and overborne with grief, The happy age return, which misery, And truth's dark torch, before its time, consumed? Have not the golden rays Of Phoebus vanished from your gaze Forever? Say, O gentle Spring, Canst thou this icy heart inspire, and melt, That in the bloom of youth, the frost of age hath felt?

O holy Nature, art thou still alive? Alive? And does the unaccustomed ear Of thy maternal voice the accents hear? Of white nymphs once, the streams were the abode. And in the clear founts mirrored were their forms. Mysterious dances of immortal feet The mountain tops and lofty forests shook,-- To-day the lonely mansions of the winds;-- And when the shepherd-boy the noontide shade Would seek, or bring his thirsty lambs Unto the flowery margin of the stream, Along the banks the clear song would he hear, And pipe of rustic Fauns; Would see the waters move, And stand amazed, when, hidden from the view, The quiver-bearing goddess would descend Into the genial waves, And from her snow-white arms efface The dust and blood of the exciting chase.

HYMN TO THE PATRIARCHS.

OR OF THE BEGINNINGS OF THE HUMAN RACE.

And thou from heaven's wrath, and ocean's waves, That bellowed round the cloud-capped mountain-tops, The sinful brood didst save; thou, unto whom, From the dark air and wave-encumbered hills, The white dove brought the sign of hope renewed, And sinking in the west, the shipwrecked sun, His bright rays darting through the angry clouds, The dark sky painted with the lovely bow. The race restored, to earth returned, begins anew The same career of wickedness and lust, With their attendant ills. Audacious man Defies the threats of the avenging sea, And to new shores and to new stars repeats The same sad tale of infamy and woe.

And now of thee I think, the just and brave, The Father of the faithful, and the sons Thy honored name that bore. Of thee I speak, Whom, sitting, thoughtful, in the noontide shade, Before thy humble cottage, near the banks, That gave thy flocks both rest and nourishment, The minds ethereal of celestial guests With blessings greeted; and of thee, O son Of wise Rebecca, how at eventide, In Aran's valley sweet, and by the well, Where happy swains in friendly converse met, Thou didst with Laban's daughter fall in love; Love, that to exile long, and suffering, And to the odious yoke of servitude, Thy patient soul a willing martyr led.

Oh, surely once,--for not with idle tales And shadows, the Aonian song, and voice Of Fame, the eager list'ners feed,--once was This wretched earth more friendly to our race, Was more beloved and dear, and golden flew The days, that now so laden are with care. Not that the milk, in waves of purest white, Gushed from the rocks, and flowed along the vales; Or that the tigers mingled with the sheep, To the same fold were led; or shepherd-boys With playful wolves would frolic at the spring; But of its own lot ignorant, and all The sufferings that were in store, devoid Of care it lived: a soft, illusive veil Of error hid the stern realities, The cruel laws of heaven and of fate. Life glided on, with cheerful hope content; And tranquil, sought the haven of its rest.

THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

Thou tranquil night, and thou, O gentle ray Of the declining moon; and thou, that o'er The rock appearest, 'mid the silent grove, The messenger of day; how dear ye were, And how delightful to these eyes, while yet Unknown the furies, and grim Fate! But now, No gentle sight can soothe this wounded soul. Then, only, can forgotten joy revive, When through the air, and o'er the trembling fields The raging south wind whirls its clouds of dust; And when the car, the pondrous car of Jove, Omnipotent, high-thundering o'er our heads, A pathway cleaves athwart the dusky sky. Then would I love with storm-charged clouds to fly Along the cliffs, along the valleys deep, The headlong flight of frightened flocks to watch, Or hear, upon some swollen river's shore The angry billows' loud, triumphant roar.

How beautiful thou art, O heaven divine, And thou, O dewy earth! Alas no part Of all this beauty infinite, the gods And cruel fate to wretched Sappho gave! To thy proud realms, O Nature, I, a poor, Unwelcome guest, rejected lover, come; To all thy varied forms of loveliness, My heart and eyes, a suppliant, lift in vain. The sun-lit shore hath smiles no more for me, Nor radiant morning light at heaven's gate; The birds no longer greet me with their songs, Nor whispering trees with gracious messages; And where, beneath the bending willows' shade, The limpid stream its bosom pure displays, As I, with trembling and uncertain foot, Oppressed with grief, upon its margin pause, The dimpled waves recoil, as in disdain, And urge their flight along the flowery plain.

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