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

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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.

What fearful crime, what hideous excess Have so defiled me, e'en before my birth, That heaven and fortune frown upon me thus? Wherein have I offended, as a child, When we of evil deeds are ignorant, That thus disfigured, of the bloom of youth Bereft, my little thread of life has from The spindle of the unrelenting Fate Been drawn? Alas, incautious are thy words! Mysterious counsels all events control, And all, except our grief, is mystery. Deserted children, we were born to weep; But why, is known to those above, alone. O vain the cares, the hopes of earlier years! To idle shows Jove gives eternal sway O'er human hearts. Unless in shining robes arrayed, All manly deeds in arms, or art, or song, Appeal in vain unto the vulgar throng.

FIRST LOVE.

Ah, Love, how badly hast thou governed me! Why should affection so sincere and pure, Bring with it such desire, such suffering?

Why not serene, and full, and free from guile But sorrow-laden, and lamenting sore, Should joy so great into my heart descend?

O tell me, tender heart, that sufferest so, Why with that thought such anguish should be blent, Compared with which, all other thoughts were naught?

That thought, that ever present in the day, That in the night more vivid still appeared, When all things round in sweet sleep seemed to rest:

Thou, restless, both with joy and misery Didst with thy constant throbbings weary so My breast, as panting in my bed I lay.

And when worn out with grief and weariness, In sleep my eyes I closed, ah, no relief It gave, so broken and so feverish!

How brightly from the depths of darkness, then, The lovely image rose, and my closed eyes, Beneath their lids, their gaze upon it fed!

O what delicious impulses, diffused, My weary frame with sweet emotion filled! What myriad thoughts, unstable and confused,

Were floating in my mind! As through the leaves Of some old grove, the west wind, wandering, A long, mysterious murmur leaves behind.

And as I, silent, to their influence yield, What saidst thou, heart, when she departed, who Had caused thee all thy throbs, and suffering?

No sooner had I felt within, the heat Of love's first flame, than with it flew away The gentle breeze, that fanned it into life.

Sleepless I lay, until the dawn of day; The steeds, that were to leave me desolate, Their hoofs were beating at my father's gate.

And I, in mute suspense, poor timid fool, With eye that vainly would the darkness pierce, And eager ear intent, lay, listening,

That voice to hear, if, for the last time, I Might catch the accents from those lovely lips; The voice alone; all else forever lost!

How many vulgar tones my doubtful ear Would smite, with deep disgust inspiring me, With doubt tormented, holding hard my breath!

And when, at last, that voice into my heart Descended, passing sweet, and when the sound Of horses and of wheels had died away;

In utter desolation, then, my head I in my pillow buried, closed my eyes, And pressed my hand against my heart, and sighed.

Then, listlessly, my trembling knees across The silent chamber dragging, I exclaimed, "Nothing on earth can interest me more!"

The bitter recollection cherishing Within my breast, to every voice my heart, To every face, insensible remained.

Long I remained in hopeless sorrow drowned; As when the heavens far and wide their showers Incessant pour upon the fields around.

Nor had I, Love, thy cruel power known, A boy of eighteen summers flown, until That day, when I thy bitter lesson learned;

When I each pleasure held in scorn, nor cared The shining stars to see, or meadows green, Or felt the charm of holy morning light;

The love of glory, too, no longer found An echo in my irresponsive breast, That, once, the love of beauty with it shared.

My favorite studies I neglected quite; And those things vain appeared, compared with which, I used to think all other pleasures vain.

Ah! how could I have changed so utterly? How could one passion all the rest destroy? Indeed, what helpless mortals are we all!

My heart my only comfort was, and with That heart, in conference perpetual, A constant watch upon my grief to keep.

My eye still sought the ground, or in itself Absorbed, shrank from encountering the glance Of lovely or unlovely countenance;

The stainless image fearing to disturb, So faithfully reflected in my breast; As winds disturb the mirror of the lake.

And that regret, that I could not enjoy Such happiness, which weighs upon the mind, And turns to poison pleasure that has passed,

Did still its thorn within my bosom lodge, As I the past recalled; but shame, indeed, Left not its cruel sting within this heart.

To heaven, to you, ye gentle souls, I swear, No base desire intruded on my thought; But with a pure and sacred flame I burned.

That flame still lives, and that affection pure; Still in my thought that lovely image breathes, From which, save heavenly, I no other joy,

Have ever known; my only comfort, now!

THE LONELY SPARROW.

Thou from the top of yonder antique tower, O lonely sparrow, wandering, hast gone, Thy song repeating till the day is done, And through this valley strays the harmony. How Spring rejoices in the fields around, And fills the air with light, So that the heart is melted at the sight! Hark to the bleating flocks, the lowing herds! In sweet content, the other birds Through the free sky in emulous circles wheel, In pure enjoyment of their happy time: Thou, pensive, gazest on the scene apart, Nor wilt thou join them in the merry round; Shy playmate, thou for mirth hast little heart; And with thy plaintive music, dost consume Both of the year, and of thy life, the bloom.

Alas, how much my ways Resemble thine! The laughter and the sport, That fill with glee our youthful days, And thee, O love, who art youth's brother still, Too oft the bitter sigh of later years, I care not for; I know not why, But from them ever distant fly: Here in my native place, As if of alien race, My spring of life I like a hermit pass. This day, that to the evening now gives way, Is in our town an ancient holiday. Hark, through the air, that voice of festal bell, While rustic guns in frequent thunders sound, Reverberated from the hills around. In festal robes arrayed, The neighboring youth, Their houses leaving, o'er the roads are spread; They pleasant looks exchange, and in their hearts Rejoice. I, lonely, in this distant spot, Along the country wandering, Postpone all pleasure and delight To some more genial time: meanwhile, As through the sunny air around I gaze, My brow is smitten by his rays, As after such a day serene, Dropping behind yon distant hills, He vanishes, and seems to say, That thus all happy youth must pass away.

THE INFINITE.

This lonely hill to me was ever dear, This hedge, which shuts from view so large a part Of the remote horizon. As I sit And gaze, absorbed, I in my thought conceive The boundless spaces that beyond it range, The silence supernatural, and rest Profound; and for a moment I am calm. And as I listen to the wind, that through These trees is murmuring, its plaintive voice I with that infinite compare; And things eternal I recall, and all The seasons dead, and this, that round me lives, And utters its complaint. Thus wandering My thought in this immensity is drowned; And sweet to me is shipwreck on this sea.

THE EVENING OF THE HOLIDAY.

The night is mild and clear, and without wind, And o'er the roofs, and o'er the gardens round The moon shines soft, and from afar reveals Each mountain-peak serene. O lady, mine, Hushed now is every path, and few and dim The lamps that glimmer through the balconies. Thou sleepest! in thy quiet rooms, how light And easy is thy sleep! No care thy heart Consumes; and little dost thou know or think, How deep a wound thou in my heart hast made. Thou sleepest; I to yonder heaven turn, That seems to greet me with a loving smile, And to that Nature old, omnipotent, That doomed me still to suffer. "I to thee All hope deny," she said, "e'en hope; nor may Those eyes of thine e'er shine, save through their tears."

This was a holiday; its pleasures o'er, Thou seek'st repose; and happy in thy dreams Recallest those whom thou hast pleased to-day, And those who have pleased thee: not I, indeed,-- I hoped it not,--unto thy thoughts occur. Meanwhile, I ask, how much of life remains To me; and on the earth I cast myself, And cry, and groan. How wretched are my days, And still so young! Hark, on the road I hear, Not far away, the solitary song Of workman, who returns at this late hour, In merry mood, unto his humble home; And in my heart a cruel pang I feel, At thought, how all things earthly pass away, And leave no trace behind. This festal day Hath fled; a working-day now follows it, And all, alike, are swept away by Time. Where is the glory of the antique nations now? Where now the fame of our great ancestors? The empire vast of Rome, the clash of arms? Now all is peace and silence, all the world At rest; their very names are heard no more. E'en from my earliest years, when we Expect so eagerly a holiday, The moment it was past, I sought my couch, Wakeful and sad; and at the midnight hour, When I the song heard of some passer-by, That slowly in the distance died away, The same deep anguish felt I in my heart.

TO THE MOON.

THE DREAM.

THE LONELY LIFE.

The morning rain, when, from her coop released, The hen, exulting, flaps her wings, when from The balcony the husbandman looks forth, And when the rising sun his trembling rays Darts through the falling drops, against my roof And windows gently beating, wakens me. I rise, and grateful, bless the flying clouds, The cheerful twitter of the early birds, The smiling fields, and the refreshing air. For I of you, unhappy city walls, Enough have seen and known; where hatred still Companion is to grief; and grieving still I live, and so shall die, and that, how soon! But here some pity Nature shows, though small, Once in this spot to me so courteous! Thou, too, O Nature, turn'st away thy gaze From misery; thou, too, thy sympathy Withholding from the suffering and the sad, Dost homage pay to royal happiness. No friend in heaven, on earth, the wretched hath, No refuge, save his trusty dagger's edge. Sometimes I sit in perfect solitude, Upon a hill, that overlooks a lake, That is encircled quite with silent trees. There, when the sun his mid-day course hath reached, His tranquil face he in a mirror sees: Nor grass nor leaf is shaken by the wind; There is no ripple on the wave, no chirp Of cricket, rustling wing of bird in bush, Nor hum of butterfly; no motion, voice, Or far or near, is either seen or heard. Its shores are locked in quiet most profound; So that myself, the world I quite forget, As motionless I sit; my limbs appear To lie dissolved, of breath and sense deprived; As if, in immemorial rest, they seemed Confounded with the silent scene around.

CONSALVO.

The lovely woman stood irresolute, And thoughtful, for a moment, with her look, In which a thousand charms were radiant, Intent on that of the unhappy man, Where the last tear was glittering. Nor would Her heart permit her to refuse with scorn His wish, and by refusal, make more sad The sad farewell; but she compassion took Upon his love, which she had known so long; And that celestial face, that mouth, which he So long had coveted, which had, for years, The burden been of all his dreams and sighs, Close bringing unto his, so sad and wan, Discolored by his mortal agony, Kiss after kiss, all goodness, with a look Of deep compassion, on the trembling lips Of the enraptured lover she impressed.

What didst thou then become? How in thy eyes Appeared life, death, and all thy suffering, Consalvo, in thy flight now pausing? He The hand, which still he held, of his beloved Elvira, placing on his heart, whose last Pulsations love with death was sharing, said: "Elvira, my Elvira, am I still On earth? Those lips, were they thy lips? O, say! And do I press thy hand? Alas, it seems A dead man's vision, or a dream, or thing Incredible! How much, Elvira, O, How much I owe to death! Long has my love Been known to thee, and unto others, for True love cannot be hidden on the earth. Too manifest it was to thee, in looks, In acts, in my unhappy countenance, But never in my words. For then, and now, Forever would the passion infinite, That rules my heart, be silent, had not death With courage filled it. I shall die content; Henceforth, with destiny, no more regret That I e'er saw the light. I have not lived In vain, now that my lips have been allowed Thy lips to press. Nay, happy I esteem My lot. Two precious things the world still gives To mortals, Love and Death. To one, heaven guides Me now, in youth; and in the other, I Am fortunate. Ah, hadst thou once, but once, Responded to my long-enduring love, To my changed eyes this earth for evermore Had been transformed into a Paradise. E'en to old age, detestable old age, Could I have been resigned and reconciled. To bear its heavy load, the memory Of one transcendent moment had sufficed, When I was happier than the happiest, But, ah, such bliss supreme the envious gods To earthly natures ne'er have given! Love In such excess ne'er leads to happiness. And yet, thy love to win, I would have borne The tortures of the executioner; Have faced the rack and fagot, dauntlessly; Would from thy loving arms have rushed into The fearful flames of hell, with cheerfulness.

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