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Title: The Poems of Leopardi

Author: Giacomo Leopardi

Translator: Francis Henry Cliffe

Release date: September 9, 2016 [eBook #53020]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at Free Literature (online soon
        in an extended version, also linking to free sources for
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        Images generously made available by the Hathi Trust.


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Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at Free Literature (online soon
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POEMS OF LEOPARDI

_Translated from the Italian_

BY

FRANCIS HENRY CLIFFE.

REMINGTON AND CO., LIMITED,

LONDON AND SYDNEY.

MDCCCXCIII.




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.

[Footnote 1: His father survived him ten years; his sister, Paolina,
thirty-two years; and his brother Carlo nearly forty-one years.]

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.

[Footnote 2: There is an excellent translation of Leopardi's Prose
Works, by Charles Edwardes, in Trubner's Philosophical Series.]

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.




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![6] Heaven then gave
      To us thy lofty mind,
      To thee nought else than agony and tears.
      O thou unblessed Torquato! couldst thou find
      Solace in song? The icy chill of fears
      That froze the daring ardour of thy soul,
      Which Tyranny did grieve,
      And Envy, nought could banish. Love betrayed,
      Love, last delusion of our earthly life,
      Thy injured heart. An empty waste the whole
      Vast world thou didst conceive
      To be, and Vacancy a queenly shade;
      Thine eyes were closed when tardy praise was rife.
      To thee thy final hour gave balm. He prays
    For death, who knows our ills, and not for glorious bays.
      Return, return to us; arise from thy
      Cold grave disconsolate,
      If yet thou lovest grief, O much deplored
      Example of deep woe. Worse is our fate
      Than that which did unto thy heart afford
      Such cause for long lament. O thou endeared!
      Who would thy doom bemoan,
      If, save themselves, for nothing else men care?
      Who would not scorn on thy great sorrow cast,
      If all that greatness and ambition reared
      Be held as Folly's own?
      If now obscure neglect fall to the share
      Of the sublime, as envy in the past,
      If higher than song we sordid grasping place,
    Who would a second time thy brow with laurels grace?
      From thee, until this hour, no man arose,
      Thou prey to Fortune's rage,
      Worthy of the Italian name, save one alone,[7]
      Alone superior to his craven age,
      Ferocious Allobrogue; to whom was shown
      Heroic fire from regions of the skies,
      Not from the barren soil
      Of this our weary land; whence, without shield,
      Upon the stage on tyrants he waged war,
      A memorable and a rare emprise!
      This war, at least, be foil
      To fruitless wrath, and some frail comfort yield.
      He stood, the only champion, to the fore:
      None followed him, for sloth and silence vile,
    More than all other things, the hearts of men defile.
      With scorn and indignation he pursued
      His life august and grand,
      And death preserved him from beholding worse.
      O my Vittorio! this was not a land
      Or age for thee; a loftier race should nurse
      Illustrious minds. Now we, who nothing heed
      Save dull repose, live bound
      By mediocrity; the learned fall,
      The rabble rises to an equal plain,
      Making the world as one. Oh, still proceed,
      Discoverer renowned,
      To rouse the dead from their funereal pall,
      Because the living slumber; make again
      Old heroes speak, so that this age at last
    May rise to glorious deeds, or blush for errors past.


    [Footnote 1: The Renaissance.]

    [Footnote 2: Dante.]

    [Footnote 3: Petrarch.]

    [Footnote 4: Columbus.]

    [Footnote 5: Ariosto.]

    [Footnote 6: Tasso.]

    [Footnote 7: Alfieri.]




    ON THE MARRIAGE OF HIS SISTER PAOLINA.


      Now that thy home thou leavest,
      Its happy silence and serene repose,
      And the ancient error which from Heaven flows,
      Adorning in thy sight this lone abode,
      By Fortune led upon the scene of life:
      Become acquainted with the evil age
      Which destiny devoteth to our years,
      My sister, who in times
      Of strife, dismay, and fears,
      Proceedest to increase the ill-starred race
      Of hapless Italy. Great models place
      Before thine offspring. An unswerving doom
      To virtuous enterprise
      Unclouded days denies,
    Nor in a bosom faint can lofty soul find room.
      Unhappy or else craven
      Shall be thy sons. Then nobly choose the first.
      A mighty gulf hath evil custom set
      'Twixt bravery and fortune. Ah! too slow,
      And in the sunset of terrestrial things,
      Doth man begin to suffer and to know.
      Heaven see'th why. The thought unto thee brings
      Its first solicitude,
      That not in Fortune's net
      Thy sons shall fall, nor be to terror low,
      Or hope the wretched tools: thence to be hailed
      Happy and blessed in the future far:
      For such the habits are
      Of our ignoble race,
    That living worth we scorn, and dead in honour place.
      Our fatherland, O women!
      Expecteth much from ye; and not to harm
      Our humankind, lurks in your eyes such charm
      That it transcends the power of fire and steel.
      To gain your praise, the warrior and the sage
      Labour and think. Where'er the sun doth shine,
      We see all things your mighty influence feel.
      Of you the cause I ask
      Why sank so low our age?
      Did by your deed the fire of youth divine
      Languish and die? By you, our nature made
      So shattered and so base? Our slumbering souls,
      Our will to shame betrayed,
      Our native valour spent:
    Must we for these on you our indignation vent?
      Love leads to mighty actions,
      Who knows him well; and of emotions vast
      Is Beauty the inspirer. Void of love
      Is he who feeleth no impassioned fire
      When storms terrific raise their wrathful blast,
      When sable clouds are darkly seen above,
      And mountains tremble at their frenzy dire.
      O wives and virgins fair!
      From you scorn be his share
      Who shuns the path of danger; who ignores
      His country's claim, unworthy; who adores
      A lowly idol in his recreant mind;
      If in your hearts you find
      The love of men doth glow
    And not of those who ever trivial fancy show.
      Scorn to be named the mothers
      Of an unwarlike race. The trials deep
      Of virtue let your offspring learn to bear,
      And in the bondage of contempt to keep
      Whate'er is honoured by this shameful age.
      Bid them rise to great actions. Make them know
      What this our land doth to its fathers owe.
      Even as the heroes' name
      Was held in honoured fame
      By Sparta's sons as they increased in years,
      Until their spouses girded on their sword,
      And then their death in anguish deep deplored,
      And rent their hair with tears
      When from the gory field
    The warrior was brought home upon his faithful shield.
      With heavenly skill, Virginia,
      Did all-prevailing beauty mould thy form,
      And thy disdain made Rome's ignoble lord
      In tempests of fierce passion rage and storm.
      Yes, thou wast fair, and in those happy years
      When pleasing dreams joy to the soul afford,
      What time thy father's unrelenting sword
      Thy snowy bosom pierced,
      And thou to Hades dark
      Didst gladly sink. "May age with wrinkles mark
      My features, O my father! May the tomb
      Await me with its everlasting gloom,
      Ere to the tyrant's bed
      A victim I be led.
    Slay me, if Rome be rescued by the blood I shed."
      O maiden lofty-hearted!
      Though in thy days the sun more brightly shone
      Than now it shines, yet honoured and consoled
      Thy tomb becomes, bewailed by many a moan,
      Thy native country's sighs. Ah, now, behold!
      The race of Romulus with new-born ire
      Is fired around thy tomb. See, tyrants sink
      Unto the very dust,
      And freedom doth inspire
      The once oblivious hearts; and o'er the earth
      Subdued, the Latin valour doth proceed
      From the dark pole even to the torrid clime:
      And thus eternal Rome,
      Of languor deep the home,
    Doth Fate, by woman's hand, revive a second time.




    THE SOLILOQUY OF BRUTUS.


      After the carnage of the Thracian plain,
      Where in vast ruins fell
      The strength of Roman freedom, whence one day
      Ausonia's valleys and the Tiber's banks
      Should tremble at barbarian foes' affray
      By Fortune's doom, and from the rugged woods
      Of distant regions cold,
      To desolate the lofty walls of Rome
      Should Gothic hordes proceed:
      O'ercome and crimsoned with fraternal gore,
      Brutus, in shadow of the lonely night,
      Resolved by self-directed sword to bleed,
      The inexorable Gods
      And cruel fate defies,
    Filling in vain the air with his impassioned cries:
      "O idle virtue! In the realms of gloom,
      Haunt of the unquiet shades,
      Thy dwelling lies; thy footsteps are pursued
      By vain repentance. Ye unfeeling Gods,
      (If Phlegethon's dark torrents are imbued
      With knowledge of your presence, or the skies)
      You mock the wretched race
      From whom you temples claim. Decrees of fraud
      Insult our humankind.
      So much the sorrow of terrestrial things
      Moves heavenly wrath? Say, Jupiter, art thou
      Enthroned the guardian of the evil mind?
      When storms terrific rave
      And thunder rumbles wide,
    Dost on the just and pious thou the lightning guide?
      "Unbending Fate! Necessity austere
      Crushes with heavy yoke
      The slaves of death; and if without an end
      They see their ills, the thought consoles them still
      That such must be. But doth woe less offend
      When without balm? Doth he feel less of pain
      Who is despoiled of hope?
      An everlasting war, O ruthless Fate!
      On thee the brave man wages
      Who knows not how to yield; thy tyrant soul,
      When thou, victorious, overwhelmest him,
      With exultation o'er thy victim rages,
      What time his heart august
      The fatal sword receives,
    And he with mockery spurns the base abode he leaves.
      "He who to Hades takes a violent way
      Doth rouse the gods to ire.
      Such strength lies not in soft, eternal souls.
      Stern Fate, perchance, our labours and our cares,
      Our bitter fortunes that Despair controls,
      Unto their leisure for amusement gave?
      Not amid woe and guilt,
      But in the woods, a free and spotless age
      Did Nature to us give,
      Our Goddess once and Queen. Now that undone
      By impious custom is the blissful reign,
      And 'neath strange laws we unrejoicing live:
      When these disastrous days
      A dauntless soul doth spurn,
    Should Nature, to accuse a shaft not hers, return?
      "Of guilt unconscious and of their distress,
      The happy beasts are led
      By Time serenely to the end ignored.
      But if 'gainst rugged trees their heads to strike,
      Or from the summit, where the wild winds roared,
      Of rocky mountains to hurl down their frame,
      They were by grief advised:
      To their desire no stern refusal harsh
      Would laws mysterious make
      Or doubtful minds. Its joys from you alone
      Of all the creatures by the earth brought forth,
      Sons of Prometheus, did existence take:
      From you the shades of death,
      When Fate of wrath gives proof,
    Alone from you, ye wretched, Jove doth hold aloof.
      "Thou art arising from the ocean-wave
      That reddened with our gore,
      To gaze, fair moon, on the unquiet night
      And plain so fatal to Ausonian strength.
      Their slaughtered kinsmen meet the conquerors' sight;
      The mountains tremble; from her pride's august
      Doth ancient Rome decline:
      And thou art so unmoved? Thou didst behold
      Lavinia's race, the years
      Of dazzling glory, and the laurels proud;
      And on the Alps thy never-varying ray
      Thou still wilt shed when 'mid the grief and tears
      Of Italy enslaved,
      Her solitary ground
    Unto barbarians' tread shall mournfully resound.
      "'Mid naked rocks, or on the verdant trees,
      Behold, the beasts and birds,
      Lost in the oblivion they forever bore,
      Remain unconscious of the ruin Vast
      And of the shattered world; and as of yore
      The peasant's roof shall redden to the sun,
      And with their morning lay
      The birds awake the valleys, and the speed
      Of fiercer beasts pursue
      The less resisting over hill and dale.
      Oh Fate! Oh idle race! an abject part
      We are of nature; not the caves that knew
      The sound of sighs, nor glebes
      Drenched in our gore, display
    Compassion for our grief, nor stars endim their ray.
      "The unheeding Kings of Heaven and Hell
      Or of the unworthy earth,
      Or night, in dying I do not invoke;
      Nor ye, last radiance of the shades of death,
      Ye future ages. Who the gloom e'er broke
      Of haughty tombs, with praise, and sighs, and gifts
      Of crowds ignoble? Worse
      The years become; and in an evil guard
      The honour of the brave
      And their last vindication lies, when left
      To their degenerate sons. Upon my corpse
      May birds of prey in famished fury rave,
      And wild beasts rend my limbs,
      And what remains be dust,
    And to the air be left my name and memory just."




    TO SPRING;

    OR,

    THE FABLES OF ANTIQUITY.


      Because the sun restores
      Its beauty to the sky, and airs revive
      At Zephyr's breath, whence heavy clouds retire,
      Divided in their shadows deep and grey:
      The birds their pinions trust
      Unto the breeze, and the diurnal ray
      Doth give new hope of love and new desire
      To happy beasts amid the dews dissolved,
      Amid the forests filled with joyous light:
      Perchance unto the weary minds of men,
      In graves of woe entombed,
      Returns the happy age, by grief and dire
      Torches of truth consumed
      Before its time? Darkened for aye and spent
      Are not Heaven's rays for him to anguish doomed
      Through Time's eternal flight?
      And, odorous Spring, art thou on firing bent,
      This frozen heart, to whom hath long been told
    Even in the flower of life, that it is worn and old?
      Dost thou still live, divine
      Nature, still live? And the unaccustomed ear
      Receives the sound of the maternal voice?
      The streams were haunts of spotless nymphs erewhile
      Abodes and mirrors clear
      Were liquid springs. The secret dances strange
      Of feet immortal, shook the wild ravine
      And wood remote (where now the fierce winds range,
      Deserted else); and the mild shepherd heard,
      When guiding to meridian shades beside
      The flowery river bank,
      His thirsty flock, a piercing lay proceed
      From sylvan deities' reed,
      Resounding far: and witnessed with amaze
      The waters quake; for veiled from mortal gaze,
      The Goddess of the bow
      Sank in the warm stream of the flood below,
      And from the dust of the ensanguined chase
    Her snowy limbs did cleanse and arms of virgin grace.
      In happier days of yore
      The flowers, the herbs, the forests were alive.
      The firmament, the Titan of the light,
      Were conscious of mankind; o'er hill and vale
      When shone thy silver beam,
      O radiant Cynthia! in the lonely night
      With orbs intent thy brow the wanderer sought,
      And thee his path's companion he did deem,
      And fancied we were cherished in thy thought.
      If man from factions of fierce cities fled
      And from disastrous strife,
      Seeking for refuge mid the mighty trees
      Of deepest forest lone:
      He thought that fire ran through their arid veins,
      That foliage breathed; and quivering in the embrace
      Full of delicious pains,
      Daphne and Phyllis, or the wailing moan
      For him who in Eridanus was cast
    By fury of the Sun, he heard upon the blast.
      Nor piercing wail and sighs
      Of human woe, ye rocks of rigid height,
      Struck you, unfeeling, whilst lone Echo dwelt
      In your recesses of alarming night:
      No error of vain wind,
      But wretched spirit of a nymph in tears,
      Of mortal shape despoiled by ruthless Fate
      And cruel Love. She, 'mid the grottos blind
      And naked crags and dwellings desolate,
      The loud complaining of our woes and fears
      To the imprisoned air
      Revealed and taught. And thee in earthly deed
      Well versed did Fame declare,
      Sweet-throated warbler in the leafy wood
      Who now dost praise the infant year with song,
      Lamenting once the wrong
      That made thy spirit with deep anguish bleed,
      In notes sublime unto the darkening sky,
    At which for pity and rage light did from Heaven fly.
      But not to ours allied
      Is now thy race; those varied notes of thine
      Pain mellows not; and thee, unstained by guilt,
      Much less endeared, the dusky valleys hide.
      Alas! now that divine
      Olympus mourns its empty halls; and wide
      The thunder wanders o'er the cloud-capped peaks,
      In sightless rage the noble and the base
      Appalling with its rumbling; and our soil,
      Unconscious of the offspring it doth feed,
      Brings forth its sons for moyle:
      Thou the deep anguish and the fate obscure
      Of mortals dost endure,
      O wondrous Nature! Thou the ancient spark
      Art kindling in my soul, if thou indeed
      Livest; if aught there be
      In Heaven above, or on the sunny earth,
      Or in the bosom of the azure main,
    To gaze, even though unpitying, on terrestrial pain.




    HYMN TO THE PATRIARCHS.


    And you the song of unrejoicing sons,
    Ye lofty fathers of the human race,
    Shall celebrate with praise; ye far more dear
    Unto the eternal Ruler of the stars,
    And much less sorrowing brought unto the light
    Sublime than we. Not piety and not
    The laws of Heaven imposed the unceasing ills
    That now afflict mankind, for sorrow born,
    And destined to discover greater joy
    In the nocturnal shadows of the tomb
    Than in the radiance of the orb of day.
    And if an ancient legend still doth tell
    The story of your ancient error dire
    That yielded man unto the tyranny
    Of suffering and grief; the guilt more fell,
    The more unquiet minds and frenzy fierce
    Of your descendants made the injured skies
    And Nature, in return for all her cares
    Spumed and neglected, feel indignant wrath:
    From which the fire of life a curse received,
    And mothers trembled at the load they bore,
    And Hell itself was imaged on the earth.

    Thou first, O father of the human race,
    Didst see the sparkling of revolving spheres,
    The new-born generations of the fields,
    The breezes roving o'er the infant trees,
    When towering rocks and yet unpeopled vales
    Heard for the first time Alpine fury sound
    Of rushing torrents; when unconscious Peace
    Reigned o'er the destined regions of renowned
    Nations and cities full of strife and noise;
    And when upon uncultivated hills
    Silent and lonely did the radiance shine
    Of sun and moon. Oh happy then, ignoring
    Events disastrous and the name of guilt,
    The vast abode of earth! Oh, how much grief
    Unto thy race, thou Father full of sorrow!
    How long a series of most bitter deeds
    The Fates prepare! The soil, behold! is stained
    With deepest crimson of a brother's blood,
    By brother shed, and o'er the sky divine
    The wings of Death their evil shadow throw.
    The fratricide with horror taketh flight,
    Shunning the lonely dimness of the shades
    And secret wrath of winds in forest deep;
    He is the first to build proud towns, henceforth
    Domain and dwelling of Care's pallid form;
    And first Remorse despairing fixeth man
    In a pent-up and undelightful home.
    Then from the plough the guilty hand was ta'en,
    And scorn was cast on labours of the field,
    And the evil halls became the home of sloth.
    All minds lay languid and of strength bereft
    In weary frames; and as the last and worst
    Of ills, mankind by slavery was bound.

    And thou from pouring skies and rolling seas
    That lashed the summits of the cloudy peaks,
    Didst save the germ of the ill-fated race,
    O thou to whom from sable space of air
    And from the mountains floating in the deep,
    A sign of hope restored by snowy dove
    Was brought; and from the ancient clouds emerging,
    The troubled sun upon the skies obscure
    Painted the bow of many beauteous hues.
    The rescued race returns unto the earth,
    Renewing evil deeds and ruthless thoughts
    And their pursuing terrors. To the reign
    Of oceans inaccessible it shows
    Its vengeful might, and beareth tears and grief
    To stars unknown and to remotest shores.

    Now thee within my heart I meditate,
    And of thy race the generous descendants,
    Thou just and valourous father of the pious!
    I shall relate how, seated in the calm
    Meridian shadows of a quiet home,
    Beside the meads so dear unto thy flocks,
    Thy soul was blest by strangers from the Heavens
    Ethereal and disguised; and how, O son
    Of wise Rebecca! in the evening hour
    Beside the rustic well and in the vale
    Of Haran, cherished by the gentle shepherds
    In their gay leisure, love inspired thy heart
    For Laban's beauteous daughter: love supreme,
    Who to long exile and affliction long,
    And to the hated yoke of servitude,
    Made many a soul of haughty strength submit.

    Once, truly once (nor with mere shadows idle
    Aonian song and legendary lore
    Delude mankind), this globe of ours benign
    And dear and pleasant to our race appeared,
    And golden was the tenour of our age.
    Not that with milk the fertile springs rushed forth,
    And from the mountains to the valleys spread;
    Nor with the flocks the tiger did resort
    In happy peace; nor with the wolves the shepherd
    Proceeded gaily to the crystal fount;
    But that our humankind lived without grief,
    Unconscious of the fate that o'er it hung,
    And of the woes impending; the sweet error,
    The fond delusions, and the pleasing veil
    Across the laws of Heaven and Nature thrown,
    Were all sufficient; and our quiet bark
    Was led into the haven of calm Hope.

    Thus, in the boundless forests of the West
    Liveth a happy race, whom pallid Care
    Pursueth not, whose members are not wasted
    By dire disease; to whom the trees yield fruit;
    Abode, the caverns kind; refreshing drink,
    The rivulets and brooks; and as her prey
    Death claims them unforeseen. Alas! 'gainst our
    Unhallowed daring, how defenceless are
    The haunts of Nature wise! our dauntless fury
    Doth penetrate the shores and caves remote
    And quiet forests, teaching the despoiled
    Desires and sorrows which they never knew,
    And hunting Happiness, aghast and naked,
    Even to the splendours of the setting sun.




    THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.


      Thou peaceful night, thou chaste and silver ray
      Of the declining Moon; and thou, arising
      Amid the quiet forest on the rocks,
      Herald of day: O cherished and endeared,
      Whilst Fate and doom were to my knowledge closed,
      Objects of sight! No lovely land or sky
      Doth longer gladden my despairing mood.
      By unaccustomed joy we are revived
      When o'er the liquid spaces of the Heavens
      And o'er the fields alarmed doth wildly whirl
      The tempest of the winds; and when the car,
      The ponderous car of Jove, above our heads
      Thundering, divides the heavy air obscure.
      O'er mountain peaks and o'er abysses deep
      We love to float amid the swiftest clouds;
      We love the terror of the herds dispersed,
      The streams that flood the plain,
    And the victorious, thunderous fury of the main.

      Fair is thy sight, O sky divine, and fair
      Art thou, O dewy earth! Alas, of all
      This beauty infinite, no slightest part
      To wretched Sappho did the Gods or Fate
      Inexorable give. Unto thy reign
      Superb, O Nature, an unwelcome guest
      And a disprized adorer, doth my heart
      And do mine eyes implore thy lovely forms;
      But all in vain. The sunny land around
      Smiles not for me, nor from ethereal gates
      The blush of early dawn; not me the songs
      Of brilliant feathered birds, not me the trees
      Salute with murmuring leaves; and where in shade
      Of drooping willows doth a liquid stream
      Display its pure and crystal course, from my
      Advancing foot the soft and flowing waves
      Withdrawing with affright,
    Disdainfully it takes through flowery dell its flight.

      What fault so great, what guiltiness so dire,
      Did blight me ere my birth, that adverse grew
      To me the brow of fortune and the sky?
      How did I sin, a child, when ignorant
      Of wickedness is life, that from that time
      Despoiled of youth, and of its fairest flowers,
      The cruel Fates wove with relentless wrath
      The web of my existence? Reckless words
      Rise on thy lips; the events that are to be,
      A secret council guides. Secret is all,
      Our agony excepted. We were born,
      Neglected race, for tears; the reason lies
      Amid the gods on high. Oh cares and hopes
      Of early years! To beauty did the Sire,
      To glorious beauty an eternal reign
      Give o'er this humankind; for warlike deed
      For learned lyre or song,
    In unadorned shape, no charms to fame belong.

      Ah, let us die! The unworthy garb divested,
      The naked soul will take to Dis its flight,
      And expiate the cruel fault of blind
      Dispensers of our lot. And thou, for whom
      Long love in vain, long faith and fruitless rage
      Of unappeased desire assailed my heart,
      Live happily, if happily on earth
      A mortal yet hath lived. Not me did Jove
      Sprinkle with the delightful liquor from
      The niggard urn, since of my childhood died
      The dreams and fond delusions. The glad days
      Of our existence are the first to fly;
      And then disease and age approach, and last,
      The shade of frigid Death. Behold! of all
      The palms I hoped for, and the errors sweet,
      Hades remains; and the transcendent mind
      Sinks to the Stygian shore
    Where sable night doth reign, and silence evermore.




    THE FIRST LOVE.


      The day once more within my memory lives
    When first I felt the affray of Love, and said:
    "Ah me, if this be Love, what pangs he gives!"
      Unto the earth I bent mine eyes and head,
    Beholding her from whom my heart did learn
    The first and stainless passion whence it bled.
      Love, to dire goal thou didst my fancy turn!
    Why should so tender an affection sting
    With such desire, such agonies that burn?
      Why not serene, and with unfettered wing,
    Why full of frenzy and of loud lament
    Into my heart didst thou thy joyaunce bring?
      Tell me, my tender heart, what terror sent
    A shaft through thee, what anguish 'mid the thought,
    Beside which paled whate'er was once content?
      That thought by day with flattering pleasure fraught.
    By night as well, unto my mind appeared,
    When worlds the silence of deep shadows sought.
      Restless, yet happy, though to grief endeared,
    Thou on my pillows didst alarm my frame
    With palpitations, every minute feared.
      And where I sad and grieved and weary came
    To close mine eyes in slumber, feverish fire
    And frenzy roused me, sleep could never tame.
      How 'mid the shades, the queen of my desire
    Uprose with vivid splendour, and mine eyes
    Gazed on her closed, the lids not rising higher!
      How many a thrill of sweet emotion flies
    Through my glad frame which joyous ardours seize!
    How many thoughts within my soul arise,
      Uncertain, undefined! Thus 'mid the trees
    Of ancient forests doth a murmur sound,
    Vague, deep of tone, in answer to the breeze.
      And whilst in silence all my thoughts were bound,
    What said'st thou, heart, when she went far away,
    For whom a world of passion thou hadst found?
      I scarce within me felt the heat a day,
    Arising from Love's furnace, when the air
    Whereon it came, to scenes remote did stray.
      At early dawn I lay in sleepless care;
    Before our house the horses pranced, ere long
    To make me of my only joyaunce bare!
      And I, to whom misgivings vague belong,
    These orbs did idly in the shadows strain,
    And forced my hearing with an effort strong
      To catch the voice, last token I could gain
    From the fair lips of her whom I revere:
    All else, alas! hath Heaven from me ta'en.
      How many a time struck on my doubtful ear
    Plebean cries and accents, and I froze
    In all my frame, my heart appalled with fear!
      And when at last within my heart I close
    The voice so well beloved, and hear the race
    Of wheels and horses as the carriage goes:
      Knowing myself despoiled, I hide my face,
    And shut mine eyes, and sink upon my bed,
    And sigh, and on my heart my hand I place.
      After a while with wavering limbs I tread
    As one amazed, along the silent room,
    And "What power else hath struck my heart?" I said.
      Then the remembrance with most bitter gloom
    Settled within my bosom; and my soul
    Became to all the scenes of life a tomb,
      And seas of anguish through my being roll,
    And I did feel as when the torrents drear
    Pour from the clouds, and shades o'ercast the whole
      Space of the sky; nor born for many a tear,
    Knew I the youth of vanished years twice nine,
    When, Love, thou first didst in full power appear,
      When for all pleasure scorn alone was mine,
    Nor dear the quiet dawn or meadows green
    Or joyous radiance of the stars that shine.
      The love of glory was no more the queen
    Of this my soul, which it before did burn,
    For love of beauty reigned there all serene.
      To wonted studies no more thoughts I turn,
    And those unto my fancy idle seem
    For which all other thoughts I used to spurn.
      Ah! I myself another self must deem
    That so much love another love hath ta'en!
    We are, in truth, vain as an empty dream!
      Only my heart did please me, and we twain
    In an eternal dialogue immersed,
    I loved to sit, the guardian of my pain.
      Mine eyes bent on the ground or else inversed
    Within myself, on lovely face to gaze
    Or on a form unpleasing, never durst:
      For the unspotted image to erase
    That dwelt within my bosom, much I feared,
    As calm lakes ruffle when the zephyr plays.
      And the remorse that not enough I cheered
    My heart with joy, a thought so full of pain
    That pleasures past it maketh unendeared,
      Rankled within me in the days that wane,
    For shame could not my cloudless soul appal,
    Nor hue of indignation my brow stain.
      To Heaven, to you, ye gentle lovers all,
    I swear no evil will did in me strive,
    None could my fire base and ignoble call.
      That fire yet lives, my love is yet alive,
    Still in my thought the beauteous image reigns,
    Whence other joys than from the skies derive,
      I never felt; enough content remains.




    THE LONELY BIRD.[8]


    Upon the summit of the ancient tower
    Unto the land around, thou, lonely bird,
    Carollest sweetly till the evening hour,
    And through the vale thy melody is heard.
    Spring makes the gentle air
    Fragrant and bright, and animates the fields,
    Bidding the gazer in his heart rejoice.
    Hark to the lowing herds, the flocks that bleat,
    The other birds that full of joyaunce sing
    And in the air in happy circles meet,
    As though they homage to their fair time bring.
    Thou, full of thought, beholdest all aside,
    Nor carest to take wing
    With thy companions, scorning their delight.
    Thou singest, and the flower
    Of spring thus fadeth with thy life's sweet hour.

    Ah me! how like to thine
    My habit doth appear! Pleasure and mirth,
    The happy offspring of our earlier age,
    And thou, Youth's brother, Love,
    Thou bitter sigh of our advancing years.
    I heed not; why, I cannot tell; but far
    From them I take my way;
    And like a hermit lone,
    Nor to my birthplace known,
    I see the spring of my existence die.
    This day that now is yielding to the night.
    Was in our hamlet ever festive held.
    Upon the air serene the bells resound
    And frequent firing of the distant guns,
    Arousing the deep echoes far and wide.
    In festival attire
    The youths and maidens go,
    Leaving their homes, upon the country paths,
    Rejoicing to be seen and to admire.
    I to this tower, remote
    From sight of men, repairing all alone,
    All joy and mirth postpone
    For other times; and as I gaze on high,
    The sun doth strike mine eye;
    Beyond the summit of yon mountain far,
    After the day serene,
    He sinketh to his rest, and seems to say
    That happy youth is leaving me for aye.

    Thou, lonely warbler, coming to the close
    Of what the stars have granted thee to live,
    In truth of these thy ways
    Shalt not complain, for Nature on thee lays
    Thy fondness of repose.
    To me, if of old age
    The dreaded terrors stern
    I cannot from me turn,
    When to no heart this soul of mine can yearn,
    When void the earth will be, the future day
    More than the present, wearisome and grey:
    How will this lone mood seem?
    What shall I of myself in past years deem?
    Ah me! repent too late,
    And often gaze behind disconsolate.


    [Footnote 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.]





    THE INFINITE.


    I always loved this solitary hill
    And this green hedge that hides on every side
    The last and dim horizon from our view.
    But as I sit and gaze, a never-ending
    Space far beyond it and unearthly silence
    And deepest quiet to my thought I picture,
    And as with terror is my heart o'ercast
    With wondrous awe. And while I hear the wind
    Amid the green leaves rustling, I compare
    That silence infinite unto this sound,
    And to my mind eternity occurs,
    And all the vanished ages, and the present;
    Whose sound doth meet mine ear. And so in this
    Immensity my thought is drifted on,
    And to be wrecked on such a sea is sweet.




    THE HOLIDAY NIGHT.


    The night is fair, without a breath of wind,
    And on the roofs and gardens full of peace
    The moon reposes and reveals afar
    Each mountain all serene. O my beloved!
    The haunts of men are silent; in their homes
    Rarely doth glimmer a nocturnal lamp.
    Thou art asleep, by gentle slumber wrapped
    Within thy quiet room; no carking care
    Disturbs thy rest; nor dost thou know or think
    How deep a wound thou openedst in my heart.
    Thou art asleep; I sally forth to greet
    The firmament, to gaze on so benign,
    And Nature, mighty in her ancient ways,
    Who made me but for woe. "To thee be hope
    Denied," she said, "even hope; and in thine eyes
    No other light, save that of tears, may shine."
    This day was full of pleasure; from thy pastime
    Thou now dost take repose: perchance in dreams
    Those who pleased thee and whom thyself did please,
    Thou seest; but not I, for all my hopes,
    Occur unto thy fancy. I, meanwhile,
    I ask myself how much of life remains
    For me to live, and here upon the earth,
    Moaning and shuddering, do I throw me down
    In utter desolation. O ye days
    So full of horror for such early years!
    Ah, woe is me! Upon the road not far
    I hear a workman's solitary song;
    After his joyaunce, in late hours of night
    He is returning to his poor abode;
    And bitterly my heart is rent in twain
    When I consider all on earth doth pass
    And leaveth not a trace. Behold! the day
    Of joy is gone, and to its festive hours
    The day of toil succeeds, and time doth take
    Whate'er belongs to man. Where, where is now
    The pride of ancient nations? Where the fame
    Of our renowned forefathers, and the vast
    Dominion of old Rome, the clash of arms
    Resounding o'er the ocean and the earth?
    All now is peace and silence, and the world
    Is wrapped in rest, and speaks of them no more.
    In those beginning years, when eagerly
    We seek the festive day, I lay awake
    When it was over, tossing full of grief
    Upon my bed; and in late hours of night
    A song I heard upon the road without,
    Expiring in the distance by degrees,
    With equal sorrow rent my heart in twain.




    TO THE MOON.


    O fair and gracious Moon! Well I remember
    A year hath passed, since up this very hill
    I came so full of anguish to behold thee:
    And o'er yon forest thou didst shed thy beams,
    As at this moment, filling it with light.
    But veiled in mist, and tremulous with tears
    That hung upon my lashes, to mine eyes
    Thy radiance did appear, for dark with woe
    Was then my life, and is, nor will it change,
    O Moon, thou my adored! And yet I love
    To bear in mind and one by one to count
    The slow years of my sorrow. Oh, how sweet
    It is to youth, when hope has yet a long,
    And memory has but a brief, career,
    To dwell in thought on things for ever past,
    Though they be sad and though affliction live!




    SOLITUDE.


    When on his roost the cock begins to crow
    And beat his wings; and to his work proceeds
    The tiller of the soil; and on the dews
    The rising sun his flashing rays doth cast:
    Upon the panes the morning shower doth beat,
    Awaking me from slumber with its sound:
    And I arise and bless the filmy clouds,
    The birds that tune their notes, the pleasant wind
    And the delightful verdure of the meads:
    Because, ye walls of unpropitious towns,
    I've seen and known ye far too well, where Hate
    Haunteth Affliction, where I sorrowing live,
    And so shall die, would it were soon! At least
    Some scanty pity is allowed my grief
    In these abodes by Nature, once, alas!
    How kinder far to me! And thou as well,
    O Nature, turnest from the wretched; full
    Of scorn for woe, thou payest homage vile
    To Happiness, the universal queen.
    In Heaven and Earth no friend for the ill-starred,
    No refuge, death excepted, doth remain!
      At times I seat me in a lonely spot,
    Upon a hill, or by a calm lake's bank,
    Fringed and adorned with flowers taciturn.
    There, when full mid-day heat informs the sky,
    His peaceful image doth the sun depict,
    And to the air moves neither leaf nor herb,
    And neither ruffling wave nor cricket shrill,
    Nor birds disporting in the boughs above,
    Nor fluttering butterfly, nor voice nor step
    Afar or near, can sight or hearing find.
    Those shores are held in deepest quietude:
    Whence I the world and even myself forget,
    Seated unmoved; and it appears to me
    My body is released, no longer worn
    With soul or feeling, and its old repose
    Is blended with the silence all around.
      O fleeting Love! full many a day is gone
    Since from my bosom thou hast ta'en thy flight,
    Though fired of yore by most impassioned zeal.
    It hath been blighted by the frigid hand
    Of cold misfortune, and is turned to ice
    Even in the time when it should blossom forth.
    The period I remember when thou first
    Didst hold thy court within this heart of mine.
    It was the time, irrevocably sweet,
    When youthful eyes are opened to the scene
    Of earthly sorrow, and it smiles on them
    As though it were a paradise below.
    The guileless heart of youth doth gladly beat
    For virgin hopes and for desires sublime;
    And the deluded mortal doth prepare
    For all the labours of his days to come,
    As if they were a joyous festival
    And gay carousah--But I scarcely saw,
    Love, thine approach, than Fortune harsh destroyed
    The tenour of my life, and to these eyes
    Nought else was seemly than eternal tears.
    But if at times along the sunny meads
    In early morn, or when meridian rays
    On hills and plains and houses shed their light,
    I see the features of a maiden fair;
    Or when in the untroubled quietude
    Of Summer night my vagrant steps proceed
    And guide me to the walls of near abodes,
    And I behold the lonely scene, and hear
    A maiden's thrilling voice, who in the hours
    Of silent night accompanies her work
    With joyous lay; emotion moves my heart
    That seemed a stone; but it, alas! returns
    Ere long to wonted gloom: a stranger now
    Is every tender feeling to my soul.
      O beauteous moon, unto whose tranquil ray
    The forest things display their love; and in
    The early dawn the hunter doth complain,
    Finding their traces intricate and false,
    Erroneous led astray: hail, O benign
    Nocturnal Queen! Unwelcome falls thy light
    In lonely wood or mountainous recess
    Or ruined building empty, on the steel
    Of pallid bandit, who with eager ears
    Hearkens afar unto the sound of wheels
    And horses' hoofs, or to the steps that tread
    The quiet road; then suddenly advancing,
    With clanking arms, and with a rough, rude voice.
    And with death-boding looks, chills with alarm
    The wanderer's heart, and leaves him on the earth
    Despoiled and well-nigh dead. Unwelcome comes
    Within the city precincts, thy clear light
    To paramour ignoble, who doth lurk
    Near walls and portals, hiding in the shade
    Of secret gloom, and standing still and dreading
    The lamps that through the windows pour their ray,
    And peopled halls. Unwelcome to base minds,
    To me benign for ever shall thy sight
    Amid the regions be, where nothing else
    Than happy hills and spacious fields thou showest
    Unto my gaze. And even I was wont,
    Though innocent my soul, to accuse thy ray
    Divinely fair in scenes inhabited,
    When offering me unto the sight of men,
    And showing human forms unto mine eye.
    Now shall I praise it ever, when I gaze
    Upon thee sailing 'mid the clouds, or thou
    Serenest ruler of ethereal spheres,
    Art looking down upon the abode of earth.
    Thou oft shalt see me, taciturn and lone,
    Wandering in bowers, or through the verdant meads,
    Or on the grass reclining, well content
    If I have leisure from deep heart to sigh.




    TO HIS LOVE.


      Loved beauty, who afar,
      Or hiding thy sweet face,
      Inspirest me with amorous delight,
      Unless in slumberous night,
      A sacred shade my dreamy visions trace
      Or when the day doth grace
      Our verdant meads and fair is Nature's smile:
      The age, devoid of guile,
      Perchance thou blessedst, which we golden style,
      And now amid the race
      Of men thou fliest, light as shadows are,
      Ethereal soul? Or did beguiling Fate
    Bid thee, veiled from our eyes, the future times await?
      To gaze on thee alive
      The hope henceforth is flown,
      Unless that time when naked and alone
      Upon new paths unto a dwelling strange
      My spirit shall proceed. When dawn did rive
      The early clouds of my tempestuous day,
      Methought thou wouldst upon earth's barren soil
      Be the companion of mine arduous range.
      But there is nought we on our globe survey
      Resembling thee; and if with careful toil
      We could discover any like to thee,
      She would less beauteous be,
    Though much of thine in face, in limb, and voice we'd see.
      Amid the floods of woe
      That Fate hath given to our years below,
      If son of man thy beauty did adore,
      Even such as I conceive it in my mind,
      He would existence, so unblessed before,
      Sweet and delightful find;
      And clearly doth to me my spirit tell
      That I to praise and glory would aspire,
      As in mine early years, for love of thee.
      But Heaven hath not deemed well
      To grant a solace to our misery;
      And linked to thee, existence would acquire
    Such beauty as on high doth bless the heavenly choir.
      Amid the shady vale
      Where sounds the rustic song
      Of the laborious tiller of the soil,
      Where seated I bewail
      The youthful error that was with me long,
      But now doth far recoil;
      And on the hills where I, remembering, weep
      The lost desires and the departed hope
      Of my sad days, the thought of thee doth keep
      My heart from death, and gives life further scope.
      Could I in this dark age and evil air,
      Preserve thine image in my soul most deep,
    'Twere joy enough, for truth can never be our share.
      If an eternal thought
      Thou art, whom ne'er with mortal, fragile frame
      Eternal Wisdom suffers to be fraught,
      Or to become the prey
      Of all the sorrows of death-bringing life;
      Or if another globe,
      Amid the innumerable worlds that flame
      On high when Night displays her dusky robe,
      Thy beauty doth convey;
      Or star, near neighbour of the sun, doth leave
      Its light on thee while gentler breezes play:
      From where the days are short and dark with strife,
    This hymn of an unknown adorer, oh receive!




    THE REVIVAL.


    I thought that in me utterly
    In life's most fragrant flower
    The sweet woes had lost power,
        Born in my early years.
    The sweet woes and the tenderest
    Sighs of the heart profound,
    All things whereby a ground
        For joy in life appears.

    How many tears and murmurings
    Did from my new state flow,
    When I my heart of snow
        Discovered void of pain!
    Gone was the wonted agony,
    And love I could not hold,
    And this my bosom cold
        Gave sighing up as vain.

    I wept that life so desolate
    And waste for me was made,
    The earth in gloom arrayed,
        Closed in eternal frost;
    The day forlorn, the taciturn
    Night more obscure and lone;
    For me no kind moon shone;
        The stars in Heaven were lost.

    But of that grief the origin
    In old affection lay;
    Within my bosom's sway
        My heart was still alive.
    Yet for the wonted images
    The weary fancy sighed;
    My sorrow's boundless tide
        With pain did ever strive.

    Ere long in me that agony
    Of pain was wholly spent,
    And further to lament
        I had no courage left.
    I lay all senseless and amazed,
    I did not ask for balm;
    As though in death's last calm,
        My heart in twain was cleft.

    I was from him how different,
    In whom did ardours shine,
    Who errors all divine
        Fed in his soul of yore!
    The early swallow vigilant,
    Who near the windows gay
    Salutes the rising day,
        Moved this my heart no more;

    Nor did the Autumn pale and sere
    Where lonely I might dwell;
    Nor did the evening bell;
        Nor sun that sought the main.
    In vain I saw bright Hesperus
    Shine in celestial round,
    In vain the valleys sound
        With nightingale's sweet pain.

    And ye, O eyes of tenderness
    And glances full of joy,
    Ye, unto lovers coy
        First love that never dies;
    And snowy hand of whitest grace
    That liest in my own;
    In vain your power is shown,
        My gloomy mood ne'er flies.

    Bereft of every happiness,
    Sad, but not tempest-torn,
    I was not all forlorn,
        My brow became serene.
    I should have murmured for the end
    Of this my life of woe,
    If in me long ago
        Dead had desire not been.

    As in old age decrepitude
    Makes life disprized and bare,
    My years of youth most fair
        Thus, thus alone were spent;
    'Twas thus the days ineffable
    Thou, O my heart, didst live,
    Days that short joyaunce give,
        By Heaven to us lent.

    Who the obscure, inglorious
    Repose bids me now miss?
    What virtue new is this,
        This that in me I find?
    Emotions sweet, imaginings
    Erroneous and sublime,
    Are ye not for all time
        The exiles of my mind?

    Are ye in truth the only ray
    Of these my sable years,
    The loves I lost with tears
        In a more tender age?
    Though on the sky or verdant meads
    Or where I list, I gaze,
    Grief doth my soul amaze,
        And yet delights assuage.

    And with my musing sympathize
    The plains, the woods and hills;
    My heart doth hear the rills,
        And murmur of the sea.
    Who after such forgetfulness
    Gives me the gift of tears?
    How is it the earth appears
        So changed and new to me?

    Perchance fair Hope, O weary heart,
    Hath granted thee a smile?
    Ah! Hope, so full of guile,
        I'll ne'er again behold.
    My fond delusions and desires
    None else than Nature gave,
    My native ardour brave
        Grief did in bondage hold,

    Though not destroy: 'twas unsubdued
    By misery and fate,
    Nor did it death await
        From Truth's unhallowed gaze.
    To my divine imagining
    I know that she is strange;
    I know that Nature's range
        Lies far from Mercy's ways;

    That not for weal solicitous
    She is, for life alone;
    She bids us live to groan,
        For nothing else she cares.
    I know that the unfortunate
    No pity find below,
    That from the sight of woe
        Men hurry unawares;

    That this our age so reprobate
    Scorns virtue and renown;
    That glory fails to crown
        The noble, learned toil.
    And you, ye eyes so tremulous,
    Ye glances all divine,
    I know you idly shine,
        And far from love recoil.

    There is no wondrous, intimate
    Affection in your gaze;
    No spark ere long to blaze,
        Lies in that snowy breast;
    For it doth mock the tenderest
    Emotion and desire;
    And a celestial fire
        By deep scorn is distrest.

    And yet in me I feel revive
    The dear illusions known:
    My soul looks on its own
        Sensations with surprise.
    From thee, my heart, this last and fair
    Spirit and inborn fire,
    All comforts in my dire
        Grief, but from thee arise.

    I feel my spirit is not dowered,
    Though lofty, sweet, and pure,
    By Nature, Fortune's lure,
        The world, or loveliness:
    But if thou livest, O, ill-starred,
    And yieldest not to Fate,
    I'll ne'er as cruel hate
        Who gave me life's distress.




    TO SILVIA.


    Silvia, rememberest thou
    Yet that sweet time of thine abode on earth,
    When beauty graced thy brow
    And fired thine eyes, so radiant and so gay;
    And thou, so joyous, yet of pensive mood,
    Didst pass on youth's fair way?

        The chambers calm and still,
    The sunny paths around,
    Did to thy song resound,
    When thou, upon thy handiwork intent,
    Wast seated, full of joy
    At the fair future where thy hopes were bound.
    It was the fragrant month of flowery May,
    And thus went by thy day.

        I leaving oft behind
    The labours and the vigils of my mind,
    That did my life consume,
    And of my being far the best entomb,
    Bade from the casement of my father's house
    Mine ears give heed unto thy silver song,
    And to thy rapid hand
    That swept with skill the spinning thread along.
    I watched the sky serene,
    The radiant ways and flowers,
    And here the sea, the mountain there, expand.
    No mortal tongue can tell
    What made my bosom swell.

        What thoughts divinely sweet,
    What hopes, O Silvia! and what souls were ours!
    In what guise did we meet
    Our destiny and life?
    When I remember such aspiring flown,
    Fierce pain invades my soul,
    Which nothing can console,
    And my misfortune I again bemoan.
    O Nature, void of ruth,
    Why not give some return
    For those fair promises? Why full of fraud
    Thy wretched offspring spurn?

        Thou ere the herbs by winter were destroyed,
    Led to the grave by an unknown disease,
    Didst perish, tender blossom: thy life's flower
    Was not by thee enjoyed;
    Nor heard, thy heart to please,
    The admiration of thy raven hair
    Or of the enamoured glances of thine eyes;
    Nor thy companions in the festive hour
    Spoke of love's joys and sighs.

        Ere long my hope as well
    Was dead and gone. By cruel Fate's decree
    Was youthfulness denied
    Unto my years. Ah me!
    How art thou past for aye,
    Thou dear companion of my earlier day,
    My hope so much bewailed!
    Is this the world? Are these
    The joys, the loves, the labours and the deeds
    Whereof so often we together spoke?
    Is this the doom to which mankind proceeds?
    When truth before thee lay
    Revealed, thou sankest; and thy dying hand
    Pointed to death, a figure of cold gloom,
    And to a distant tomb.




    THE MEMORIES.


    Ye stars of Ursa's sign, I did not think
    I should return, as formerly, to gaze
    Upon you, shining on my father's garden,
    And with you to hold parley from the windows
    Of this old mansion where in youth I dwelt,
    And of my joys beheld the bitter end.
    How many strange imaginings of yore
    Your aspect and the stars that near you shine,
    Created in my thoughts when 'twas my wont,
    In silence wrapped, on verdant sward reclining,
    To pass the hours of evening, gazing long
    Upon the sky and list'ning to the sound
    That issued from frog-haunted marshes far.
    'Twas then the glow-worm hovered round the hedges
    And o'er the beds of flowers; while to the wind
    The fragrant alleys rustled, and beyond
    The cypress forest moaned; and 'neath our roof
    Voices proceeded, and the quiet work
    Of the attendants. And what thoughts immense,
    What sweetest dreams inspired me at the view
    Of that far-distant sea, those azure mountains,
    Which yonder I discern, and which some day
    I hoped to cross, an unknown world, unknown
    Felicity depicting to my years!
    This life of mine, so painful and so bare,
    I willingly with death would have exchanged!

    Nor did my heart foretell I should be doomed
    To consummate my youthful years in this
    My native hamlet rude; amid a race
    Ribaldrous, vile; to which are names most strange,
    And often themes of mockery and jibes,
    Learning and science; and it hates and shuns me,
    Not out of envy, for it does not deem
    My worth superior, but because it knows
    That in my heart I think so, though thereof
    An outward sign to none I ever gave.
    Here do I pass my years, abandoned, hidden,
    And without love or life; and needs amid
    A rabble so malignant, bitter grow;
    Here I discard all pity and all virtue,
    And a despiser of mankind become,
    Because of those around me; and, meanwhile,
    The cherished time of youth escapes, more dear
    Than fame or laurels, dearer than the pure
    Radiance of day and vital breath; I lose thee
    Without a joy, and uselessly, in this
    Inhuman dwelling-place, immersed in woes,
    Of barren life thou solitary flower!

    I hear the wind that wafts the striking time
    From yonder village-clock. I well remember
    That sound was the sole comfort to my nights,
    When as a child, in darkness of my room,
    I passed a sleepless vigil, full of terrors,
    Sighing for day. Around me there is nothing
    I see or hear, whence fancies old do not
    Return, or sweet remembrances arise,
    Sweet in themselves; but full of pain appears
    The present to my mind, the vain desire
    For what is past, though sad, the thought "I was!"
    Yon loggia, turned towards the dying light
    Of the expiring day; these pictured walls,
    Those herds that live in painting, and the sun
    O'er lonely country rising, to my leisure
    Gave many joys, what time my mighty error
    Beside me stood, wherever I might be,
    Prompting my heart. Here in these ancient halls,
    When shone the snow without, and stormy blasts
    Were whistling round these ample windows high,
    My pleasures had their scene, and my gay laugh
    Re-echoed in that time when we suppose
    The bitter, cruel mystery of things
    Entirely sweet; an inexperienced lover,
    Admiring heavenly beauty he conceives,
    The youth pays court unto his life which yet
    Before him lies untasted, unconsumed.

    Ye hopes, ye vanished hopes, ye sweet illusions
    Of my beginning years! always in song
    To you I come; and although time doth fly,
    And thoughts do change, and even affections vary,
    Forget you, I shall never. Shades, I know,
    Are glory and honour, riches and delight,
    Merest desire; life doth not yield a fruit,
    Tis useless misery. And although empty
    Are these my years, and desolate and dark
    My lot on earth, I see that fortune keeps
    Little from me. Alas! but when my thoughts
    Recur to you, oh ye my ancient hopes!
    And to my fond imagining of yore,
    And then consider my existence, made
    So painful and so vile that death is all
    That of such high aspiring still is mine:
    I feel my heart contract, I feel that wholly
    There is no consolation for my fate.
    And when at last this long implored for death
    Shall come to me, and thus the end be reached
    Of all my woes; when to my soul this earth
    Shall be a vale remote; and from my sight
    The future shall escape: of ye in truth
    I will be mindful, and even then your image
    Will make me sigh, will make the thought most bitter
    That I have lived in vain, and even the sweetness
    Of dying it will temper with affliction.

    Even in the earliest youthful turbulence
    Of happiness, of anguish, of desire,
    I often called for death; and long I sat
    Out there, upon the margin of yon fountain,
    And thought of ending in that lucid stream
    My hope and pain. But soon Misfortune blind
    Conducted me through life's most various maze,
    And I then wept for youth and for the flower
    Of my ill-fated days, that ere its time
    Withered; and often through belated hours
    Upon my bed reclining, mournfully
    Conning my verses at the lamp's dim ray,
    With silence and with night I did lament
    My spirit flying hence, and on myself
    In languid pain a funeral dirge I sang.

    Who without sighing can remember ye,
    O early dawn of youth, O happy days
    Charming beyond narration? When on man
    Fair women first do smile and make him blest
    With tokens of their love; when all around
    Is radiant; when even envy still is silent,
    Not yet roused, or else kind; and when it seems,
    Oh unaccustomed miracle! the world
    Doth offer him a helping, generous hand,
    Forgives his errors, celebrated his new
    Arrival in this life, and full of homage
    Appears to hail him and receive him lord?
    Ah fleeting days! As swift as lightning's flash
    They disappear. And who of those on earth
    Can be to woe a stranger, if for him
    That season is no more, if his fair time,
    If youth, ah youth! for evermore be gone?

    O my Nerina I and perchance of thee
    These scenes I hear not tell? Art thou perchance
    Fallen from my recollection? Where art thou,
    That here of thee the memory alone
    I find, my sweetest love? This native soil
    Sees thee no more; that window, whence thy wont
    It was to hold discourse with me, and whence
    Sadly the starry radiance is reflected,
    Is desolate. Where art thou, that no more
    I hear thy voice as in a former day,
    When every distant accent from thy lips
    That reached mine ear, had in it such a charm,
    It changed my hue? Those times are gone. Those days
    Are over, my adored. Thou passedst. Others
    By Fate are now allowed on earth to live
    And make their dwelling 'mid these fragrant hills.
    But far too rapidly thy life did end,
    Even as a dream. It was thy wont to dance,
    And on thy brow shone joy, and in thine eyes
    That fond imagining, that radiant light
    Of youth, when Fate extinguished them, and thou
    Didst lie in death. Ah me, Nerina! Still
    The old love reigns in my heart. If I at times
    To festive pleasures go, unto myself
    I say: "Alas, Nerina I For such joys
    Thou dost no more array thee, nor proceed."
    If May returns, and flowers and roundelays
    The lovers offer to their well-beloved,
    I say, "Nerina mine! for thee no more
    Doth Spring return, nor do the sweets of love."
    Each day serene in beauty, and each bed
    Of flowers I see, each joyaunce that I feel,
    I say: "Nerina now no more enjoys them,
    Nor sees the earth and sky." Ah, thou art gone,
    Thou my eternal sigh, gone: and united
    With all my musings, with my tenderest feelings,
    And with the heart's emotions, sad yet dear.
    Shall be for aye the bitter memory.




    THE NOCTURNAL SONG

    OF A

    NOMADIC SHEPHERD IN ASIA.


    Wherefore, O Moon, art thou on high? O say,
    Thou silent Moon serene!
    At night thou dost proceed,
    Our waste beholding, then dost sink to rest.
    Hast thou ne'er weary been
    Of repursuing the everlasting way?
    Untired as yet, still takest thou delight
    On earth to turn thy sight?
    Even as thy life on high,
    The shepherd's life doth fly.
    When dawn succeeds to night,
    He sallies forth and leads his flock to graze.
    He sees the grass and flowers,
    And, weary, resteth in nocturnal hours,
    Nor other hope doth raise.
    Say, Moon, what boots his life
    To humble swain, or thy
    Divine existence unto thee on high?
    Where doth my life below,
    Thy course immortal go?

    Even as an old man bent,
    Ragged and white of hair,
    Whose aching shoulders grievous fardels bear,
    O'er mountains and through vales,
    O'er pointed rocks, through sandy wastes, through marshes,
    A prey to winds, to tempests, to fierce heat,
    To snow, to ice, to sleet,
    Still toils upon his way,
    Through sloughs and torrents goes,
    Falls, rises, hurries as though time were brief,
    Without rest or relief,
    Footsore and suffering, until he arrives
    Where his long path did tend,
    Where all his weary wandering finds an end:
    A dread abyss profound
    Where dark oblivion grasps him as her prey:
    Thou virgin Moon, even so
    Is this our life below.

    Man draws for toil his breath,
    And birth itself is on the verge of death.
    In pain and suffering dire
    His days begin, and in life's early morn
    His mother and his sire
    Try to console him that he e'er was born.
    As he in years doth grow,
    They help him onwards, and for ever strive,
    By action and by word,
    To keep his hope alive,
    And to console him for our fate below:
    Nor any way more kind
    Their fondness to display, can parents find.
    But why give to the light,
    Why with life animate
    A wretched spirit ever seeking balm?
    If heavy be our fate,
    Why do we bear its weight?
    O virgin Moon, even so
    Is this our life below.
    But thou in region calm
    Dost little heed upon my wail bestow.

    Eternal pilgrim on thy lonely way,
    Who full of thought dost shed thy silver ray,
    Perchance to thee well known
    Are life and suffering and distressful moan;
    Thou knowest what is death, what the supreme
    Grey pallor of the face,
    The earth that leaveth not a mental trace,
    And the awakening from our life's deep dream.
    And thou, in truth, dost see
    The cause of things, and what the fruit may be
    Of morning and of night,
    And of Time's silent, never-ending flight.
    Thou knowest, in truth, what tender love and sweet
    Spring with its buds doth greet,
    Why summer heats arise, and what device
    Brings winter with its ice.
    A thousand things unto thy soul are plain,
    Which are but riddles to the simple swain.
    Oft when I see thee shine
    In lonely sphere and solemn state divine
    Upon our waste that stretches to the skies;
    Or when my flock I lead
    And see thy radiance on my path proceed,
    And when the stars' clear rays attract mine eyes,
    Within my soul I say:
    "What means so many a ray?
    Where goes the wind? what booteth in the sky
    The endless space serene? What is the thought
    Of this vast solitude, and what am I?"
    Thus my amazement to express I sought,
    Nor of the proud abode,
    Too vast in size, nor of the unnumbered race,
    Nor of the labours and the powers that goad
    All things of earth and of the realms divine,
    Revolving without rest,
    To be again where they commenced their road:
    Of all I cannot trace
    The use or meaning. Surely thou art blest
    With deeper lore, who in the spheres dost shine.
    I only know and feel,
    Of all the skies reveal,
    Of my frail life below,
    That unto me existence is but woe.

    O thou, my flock that liest in repose!
    Thrice blessed thou, unconscious of distress!
    How much I envy thee!
    Nor merely that from woes
    Thy destiny is free,
    Nor that all things unkind,
    All sudden fears soon vanish from thy mind;
    But most because thou knowest not weariness.
    When lying on a grassy plot in shade,
    Thou art contented made.
    A long part of the year
    Thus flies by thee, and not a care is near.
    And I as well on grassy plot in shade
    My body oft have laid;
    But weariness lies heavy on my soul;
    And, seated, I am further from the goal
    Of peace and sweet repose.
    And yet I yearn for nought,
    Nor have I any reason for my woes.
    What makes thy happy state
    I cannot say; but thou art fortunate,
    And I have little joy,
    My flock; nor therein lies my whole annoy.
    If thou couldst speak, I'd ask
    Why, lying in calm shade,
    All beasts are happy made;
    But when I leisure know
    I am assailed by weariness and woe?

    If wings perchance had I
    Above the clouds to fly,
    And one by one the radiant stars to count,
    Or like fierce thunder o'er the crags to roam,
    I should be happier, thou my gentle flock,
    I should be happier, virgin Moon on high.
    Or else, perchance, my thought
    By vagrant dreams is full of errors fraught;
    Perchance in every form
    That Nature may on everything bestow,
    The day of birth brings everlasting woe.




    THE RULING THOUGHT.


    Omnipotent and kind,
    Lord of the deep recesses of my mind;
    In terrors clad, yet dear
    Gift of the skies; so near
    In my gloom-darkened days,
    Thought upon which so oft I fix my gaze:

        Thy nature unrevealed
    Who doth not contemplate? Who wears a shield
    Impervious to thy power?
    Though tongue of man must say
    What passion in his bosom beareth sway,
    All thou may'st utter seemeth new for aye.

        How like a hermit lone
    Was this my spirit made
    Even from the time thou didst my mind invade!
    As rapidly as lightnings flash and die,
    My other thoughts did fade,
    Not one remaining. Like a strong tower, high
    On solitary plain,
    Thou, lonely giant, o'er my soul dost reign.

        What to my visionary gaze became
    All things of earth, and all
    That life can give, alone excepting thee!
    How on my spirit pall
    The labours and the leisure,
    And vain desiring of still vainer pleasure,
    Compared unto that joy,
    That heavenly joy, which maketh thee my treasure!

        As from the naked peaks
    Of rugged Appenine,
    With longing gaze the weary pilgrim seeks
    The verdant meads that in the distance shine:
    Thus from the harsh and dry
    Scene of the world, to thee I gladly fly,
    As to a beauteous garden, and I find
    Thy fair abode unto my spirit kind.

        I scarcely can believe
    That I this life and our ignoble world
    For years of weary length
    Without thee had the strength
    To bear. Hard to conceive
    It is that men aspire,
    Ignoring thee, to many a vain desire.

        Ne'er from the hour when first
    Experience taught me what this life can be,
    Did fear of death bring terror to my heart;
    And now a jest to me
    Seems what the world so base
    At times extols, but never dares to face,
    The necessary end:
    If any peril falleth to my part,
    Before its threat my spirit doth not bend.

        I always held in scorn
    The craven and the mean;
    Now every deed, of lowly baseness born,
    Doth move my spirit keen;
    My soul doth flash with ire
    When human vileness desolates my view.
    This haughty age untrue,
    Feeding itself on barren hopes and vain,
    To folly gentle, and to virtue dire,
    That asks for things of use,
    Nor sees by what abuse
    Our life becometh useless more and more,
    I loathe, arising o'er
    Its meanness. Human acts I ne'er esteem;
    The crowd that doth disdain
    Thy loveliness, in all I worthless deem.

        What passion doth not yield
    To that inspired by thee?
    The one thou hast revealed
    Alone rules man in sovran majesty.
    Pride, hatred, avarice and fierce disdain,
    The zeal to shine and reign,
    What else than shadows vain
    Are they beside it? One affection lives
    Among our race below,
    By laws eternal sent
    To rule mankind, a lord omnipotent.

    Life hath no meaning and not one delight
    Except from that which unto man is all,
    The sole excuse of Fate
    Who placed on earthly soil
    Our race to languish in such fruitless toil;
    Whereby alone at times,
    Not to the rabble, but the gentle heart,
    Life more than death appears the better part.
    To cull thy joys, O thought divinely sweet!
    The weight of human woes,
    Of life the weary chain,
    Were not endured in utter anguish vain;
    And I would even return,
    Versed as I am in every earthly ill,
    For such a goal to repursue the road.
    Of viper's sting and of the sands that burn
    I never felt the goad
    So much, that, coming unto thy relief,
    It gave no balm unto terrestrial grief.

        What wondrous worlds, what new
    Immensities, what Paradise is there,
    Where oft thy wizard power my spirit drew
    In lofty flights, and where
    By other radiance than on earth e'er shined,
    I stray, nor to my mind
    My earthly state recall, nor truth unkind!
    Such are, methinks, the dreams
    Of the immortals. Ah! a dream, in sooth,
    Thou art, sweet thought, a garment to adorn
    Harsh and unlovely truth,
    An error palpable. But even of those
    Fair errors Nature shows,
    Thou art divine, because so strong and deep,
    That 'gainst the real thou thy ground dost keep;
    Thy power its equal seems,
    And only in death from mortal spirit goes.

        And thou, indeed, my thought, unto my days
    Alone the vital breath,
    Thou cherished cause of infinite despair,
    With me shalt fall beneath the stroke of death:
    I gather from the signs my soul displays
    That thou shalt reign, eternal monarch, there.
    All other errors, sweet
    Disperse on pinions fleet
    At Truth's approach. And even the more I turn
    Upon her brow to gaze,
    Of whom with thee discoursing my days fly,
    The more the joyaunce grows,
    The frenzy wild whence my existence flows.
    Angelic loveliness!
    The fairest face that ever met mine eye,
    Methinks like image vain
    Attempts to rival thee. Thou art alone
    The fountain and the spring
    Of every charm that can enchantment bring.

        From when I saw thee first,
    What other care did ever prompt my heart
    Than love of thee? How much of day doth part
    Without a thought of thine? In sleep immerst,
    When lay my weary soul
    By dreams unhaunted of thy sovran form?
    As beautiful as dreams
    Thy angel vision seems.
    On earth below or in the distant spheres:
    What hope to me appears
    Of finding aught more lovely than thine eyes,
    Or sweeter joyaunce than thy thought supplies?




    LOVE AND DEATH.


    "He dies in youth who to the gods is dear."
    MBNANDER.

    Brethren at one time, Love and Death, did Fate
    Of yore ingenerate.
    Nought fairer here below

    Hath this our world, nor have the stars, to show.
    Joys from the one do flow,
    The greatest joys that we
    Can in the ocean of existence see.
    The other every pain
    And every woe bids wane.
    A maiden fair of face,
    Sweet to behold, not such
    As doth imagine this our craven race,
    She likes to join full oft
    The youthful god of love,
    And both then fly aloft,
    The paths of earth above,
    Chief comfort of each wise and noble heart;
    Nor was a heart more wise
    Than when by love inspired;
    Nor in a braver mood
    This life of woe and anguish to despise,
    Nor for a lord more high
    Than this one is, each danger to defy:
    For where thou giv'st thine aid,
    Love, courage soon is made,
    Or doth revive; in noble actions wise
    And not, as it is wont, in idle mind,
    Becomes our humankind.

        When in the heart profound
    Ariseth young and
    A weary, languid longing for the grave
    Our bosom doth inspire:
    How, I know not; but such
    Of real love the first effect is found.
    Perchance our eyes we cast
    Upon the desert of the world aghast,
    And mortal man his habitation loathes
    Without that joy supreme
    Whereof his soul doth dream;
    But in his heart foreboding tempests wild
    From that same joy, he sighs for quiet mild
    And for a harbour's ease
    That should the storm appease,
    Of which he felt such wild emotions vast.

        And when with vivid fire
    The passion burns the heart,
    And an imperishable empire gains:
    How many times, O Death,
    With an intense desire
    The lover prays thee to conclude his pains!
    How oft by night, how oft
    By day, impatient of his weary frame,
    He would have called his destiny divine,
    If he had ne'er arisen,
    Nor seen again the unpitying planets shine!
    And oft when tolled the deep funereal knell,
    And sang the dirge beside the sable hearse
    That bears the dead to their eternal night,
    With many burning sighs
    From deepest heart he envied the repose
    Of him who went among the tombs to dwell.
    Even they of low degree:
    The tiller of the soil,
    All strength ignoring that from wisdom flows.
    The tender maiden, full of fear and shame,
    Who at the very name
    Of Death was wont to quake:
    The gloomy horrors of the dreaded grave
    Oft overcome with fortitude most brave,
    Long thoughtful of the means
    That end all earthly woes,
    And in uncultured mind
    The wondrous beauty of expiring find.
    So much to death inclined
    The power of love appears; and many a time,
    To such a height the furious tempest risen
    That it breaks through the trammels of its prison,
    The body worn and frail
    Yields to the storm, and Death we see prevail
    Even in that guise through her fraternal power;
    Or Love so deeply stirs the heart to ire,
    That by their deed the rustic, void of guile,
    And tender maiden fair
    In agonised despair
    Their lives destroy when youth doth on them smile.
    The world doth mock their end,
    To whom may Heaven peace and old age send.

        To fervent, to sublime,
    To daring souls august,
    May one or both of ye kind Fortune yield,

    O friends and lords, and shield
    Of this our humankind,
    Ye to whose power no rival power we find
    Throughout the world, where we our eyes may cast,
    Unless in Fate, so terrible and vast.
    And thou, whom even from earliest days of yore
    I honour and implore,
    Thou beauteous Death, alone
    Of all the world to earthly woes benign!
    If e'er to thee I've shown
    My love in song, if to thy sway divine
    I tried to expiate
    Unthankful scorn and hate,
    Delay no more, incline
    To an unwonted prayer,
    Close from the light's harsh glare
    These tear-worn eyes, O sovereign of our fate!
    Me thou shalt find, whatever be the day
    When at my moan thou shalt thy wings display,
    With an undaunted brow,
    'Gainst Fortune fortified,
    The ruthless hand that with my guileless gore
    Is crimsoned o'er and o'er.
    Not covering with praise,
    Not blessing, as the ways
    Of men dictate, whom ancient errors guide;
    All idle hopes that may console them now
    Like children in their grief,
    And every comfort brief
    I'll spurn: nought else than thee in any age
    Implore my woes to assuage;
    Hope but that day's relief
    When I, serene, my head can lay to rest
    Upon thy virgin breast.




    TO HIMSELF.


    Now shalt thou rest for aye,
    My weary heart. The final error dies
    Wherewith I nourished my divinest dreams.
    'Tis gone. I feel in me for sweet delusions
    Not merely hope, but even desire, is dead.
    Rest for all time. Enough
    Hath been thine agitation. There is nought
    So precious, thou shouldst seek it; and the earth
    Deserveth not a sigh. But weary bitterness
    Is life, nought else, and ashes is the world.
    Be now at peace. Despair
    For the last time. Unto our race did Fate
    Give nought, save death. Now hold in scorn and hate
    Thyself and Nature and the power unknown,
    That reigns supreme unto the grief of all,
    And the vast vanity of this terrestrial ball.




    ASPASIA.


    Again at times appeareth to my thought
    Thy semblance, O Aspasia I either flashing
    Across my path amid the haunts of men
    In other forms; or 'mid deserted fields
    When shines the sun or tranquil host of stars,
    As by the sweetest harmony awoke,
    Arising in my soul which seems once more
    To yield unto that vision all superb,
    How much adored, O Heaven I of yore how fully
    The joyaunce and the halo of my life?
    I never meet the perfume of the gardens,
    Or of the flowers that cities may display,
    Without beholding thee as thou appearedst
    Upon that day, when in thy splendid rooms
    Which gave the perfume of the sweetest flowers
    Of recent Spring, arrayed in robes that bore
    The violet's hue, first thine angelic form
    Did meet my gaze as thou, reclining, layest
    On strange, white furs, and deep, voluptuous charm
    Seemed to be thine, whilst thou, a skilled enchantress
    Of loving hearts, upon the rosy lips
    Of thy fair children many a fervent kiss
    Imprintedst, bending down to them thy neck
    Of snowy beauty, and with lovely hand
    Their guileless forms, unconscious of thy wile,
    Clasping unto thy bosom, so desired,
    Though hidden. To the visions of my soul
    Another sky and more entrancing world
    And radiance as from heaven were revealed.
    Thus in my heart, though not unarmed, thy power
    Infixed the arrow which I wounded bore,
    Until that day when the revolving earth
    A second time her yearly course fulfilled.

    A ray divine unto my thought appeared,
    Lady, thy beauty. Similar effects
    Beauty and music's harmony produce,
    Revealing both the mysteries sublime
    Of unknown Eden. Thence the loving soul,
    Though injured in his love, adores the birth
    Of his fond mind, the amorous idea
    That doth include Olympus in its range,
    And seems in face, in manner, and in speech
    Like unto her whom the enchanted lover
    Fancies alone to cherish and admire.
    Not her, but that sweet image, he doth clasp
    Even in the raptures of a fond embrace,
    At last his error and the objects changed
    Perceiving, wrath invades him, and he oft
    Wrongly accuses her he thought he loved.
    The mind of woman to that lofty height
    Rarely ascends, and what her charms inspire
    She little thinks and seldom understands.
    So frail a mind can harbour no such thought;
    In vain doth man, deluded by the light
    Of those enthralling eyes, indulge in hope;
    In vain he asks for deep and hidden thoughts,
    Transcending mortal ken, of her to whom
    Hath Nature's laws a lesser rank assigned,
    For as her frame less strength than man's received,
    So too her mind less energy and depth.?

    Nor thou as yet what inspirations vast
    Within my thought thy loveliness aroused,
    Aspasia, could'st conceive. Thou little knowest
    What love unmeasured and what woes intense,
    What frenzy wild and feelings without name,
    Thou didst within me move, nor shall the time
    Appear when thou canst know it. Equally
    The skilled performer ignorant remains
    Of what with hand or voice he doth arouse
    Within his hearers. That Aspasia now
    Is dead, whom I so worshipped. She lies low
    For evermore, once idol of my life:
    Unless at times, a cherished shade, she rises,
    Ere long to vanish. Thou art still alive,
    Not merely lovely, but of such perfection
    That, as I think, thou dost eclipse the rest.
    But now the ardour, born of thee, is spent:
    Because I loved not thee, but that fair goddess
    Who had her dwelling in me, now her grave.
    Her long I worshipped, and so was I pleased
    By her celestial loveliness, that I,
    Even from the first full conscious and aware
    Of what thou art, so wily and so false,
    Beholding in thine eyes the light of hers,
    Fondly pursued thee while she lived in me;
    Not dazzled or deluded; but induced
    By the enjoyment of that sweet resemblance,
    A long and bitter slavery to bear.

    Now boast, for well thou may'st; say that alone
    Of all thy sex art thou to whom I bent
    My haughty head, to whom I gladly gave
    My heart in homage. Say that thou wert first
    And last, I truly hope, to see mine eyes'
    Imploring gaze, and me before thee stand
    Timid and fearful (as I write, I burn
    With wrath and shame); me of myself deprived,
    Each look of thine, each gesture and each word
    Observing meekly; at thy haughty freaks
    Pale and subdued; then radiant with delight
    At any sign of favour; changing hue
    At every glance of thine. The charm is gone;
    And with it shattered, falls the heavy yoke,
    Whence I rejoice. Though weariness be with me,
    Yet after such delirium and long thraldom,
    Gladly my freedom I again embrace,
    And my unshackled mind. For if a life
    Void of affections and of errors sweet,
    Be like a starless night in winter's depth,
    Revenge sufficient and sufficient balm
    It is to me that here upon the grass
    Leisurely lying and unmoved, I gaze
    On sky, earth, ocean, and serenely smile.




    ON AN ANCIENT SEPULCHRAL BASSO RILIEVO

    REPRESENTING A MAIDEN TAKING LEAVE OF HER FRIENDS.


    Where goest thou, and what imperious voice
    Calls thee away from love,
    Thou maiden fair of face?
    Why, lonely wanderer, from thy native place
    Dost thou depart before thy days are old?
    Say, wilt thou ne'er return? No more rejoice
    Whom round thee now thou dost in tears behold?

    Thou weepest not, and dauntless is thy brow,
    Though sadness on thy features leaves a trace.
    If life hath pleasing or unjoyous been,
    If dark with gloom or bright with joy the place
    To which thou hurriest now,
    Is by no sign upon thy features seen.
    Alas! I cannot find
    Solution of the problem in my mind:
    Nor can our race below
    With full assurance know
    If Heaven to thee doth gentle favour show,
    Or unrelenting ire,
    Or if thy doom be fortunate or dire.

    Death summons thee. The dawning of thy days
    Beholds their early close.
    The home thy footsteps leave
    Shall ne'er again thy beauteous form receive.
    On thy fond parents thou no more shalt gaze;
    Beneath the earth thy future home is laid,
    Where for all time thy dwelling shall be made.
    It may be, thou art blest: but on thy doom
    Who meditates, must sigh in bitter gloom.

    The light ne'er to have seen,
    Methinks would be the best. But, being born,
    When beauty first begins to reign, a queen,
    And the fair form to adorn,
    And meets eternal praise,
    And many a fervent and adoring gaze;
    When Hope her fragrant buds begins to show,
    And ere the beauteous land and sky around
    Unpitying Truth in darkness doth confound:
    To find, like vaporous and ethereal clouds
    That in frail shapes on the horizon play,
    The future fly, as though unheralded,
    The joys of times desired
    Beneath the silent tombstone lying dead:
    If in this doom the mind
    Some happiness can find,
    Even sternest heart with pity must be fired.

    Thou mother feared and wept
    By mortal races from their earliest days,
    Nature, thou marvel that I cannot praise,
    Who givest life in order to destroy!
    If agony be kept
    Alive by early and untimely death,
    Why on the innocent thy wrath employ?
    And if it give relief,
    Why of all woes the chief,
    Why make the parting so disconsolate
    To him who still draws breath,
    To him whom Death's eternal realms await?

    Unhappy where we gaze,
    Unhappy where we turn or where we rest,
    Are man's disastrous days!
    It pleaseth thee that void
    And utterly destroyed
    Should be our youthful hope; that seas of woe
    Should part our years; to evil only shield
    Be Death; and that which we can never shun,
    The law stern and supreme,
    By thee is given us when our course is run.
    Ah me! But after our laborious way
    Why is, at least, the goal not fair and gay?
    Why her, who doth control
    Our future, looming darkly in our soul,
    Why her, who is the balm
    To these our days ne'er calm,
    In sable robes array,
    Involve in shadows grey?
    Why in our fancy form
    The harbour more terrific than the storm?

    If this, indeed, be woe,
    This death which thou dost keep
    Impending o'er us all, whom, without guilt,
    Unconscious and unwilling, thou hast doomed
    To live; he who is wrapped in death's long sleep,
    Should more our envy rouse,
    Than he who liveth his beloved to weep.
    If, as I firmly think,
    Life is but misery
    And death a mercy, yet whoever could
    Desire, even as he should,
    The fatal day of those to him most dear,
    To find himself bereaved,
    Disconsolate and grieved,
    To see away from his deserted home
    The cherished figure borne
    That did for many years his life adorn?
    To utter an eternal fare-thee-well,
    Without hope finding birth
    To meet again on earth;
    Then lonely and abandoned in this world,
    Gazing around in wonted time and scene,
    To bear in mind the union that hath been?
    Ah I tell me, Nature, how hast thou the heart
    From the embrace to rend
    Of friend, the loving friend,
    From brother, brother dear,
    The offspring from the sire,
    And love from love; and bidding one expire,
    Doom the survivor to existence dire?
    How could thy ruthless deed
    Cause so much sorrow that the living bleed
    In heart for love entombed? But Nature's end,
    On her mysterious way,
    Is not to foster joy, or sorrow to allay.




    THE SETTING OF THE MOON.


    As in the lonely night
    O'er lakes and mountains bathed in silver light,
    When zephyr gaily plays,
    And visions meet our gaze,
    Strange forms that weave a power
    In the nocturnal hour,
    By distant shadows wrought
    O'er hill and dale and gently flowing streams:
    The Moon descends unto the sky's last verge
    Behind the ridge of Alp or Appenine,
    Or in the Tyrrhene sea her rays doth merge;
    And as she falls, no radiance more doth shine,
    The shadows fade, and all
    The world lies wrapped in one funereal pall;
    Bereaved the night remains;
    And singing in impassioned, mournful strains,
    The wanderer salutes the last, faint ray
    Of her who lit his way
    With argent crescent in the spheres divine:

    Even thus youth wanes and flies,
    And every joyaunce dies,
    And Hope expires, the reed whereon we leant
    In happier days, ere every bliss was spent,
    And ere our life obscure
    And desolate became.
    The weary wanderer gazes on the scene
    Of sable hue that now doth intervene,
    And vainly asketh why
    So dire a path before him yet should lie;
    And as unto his eye
    The world appeareth changed,
    He finds himself no more what he hath been,
    But to the world and all its ways estranged.

    Too happy and too gay
    Our span of mortal life
    Would seem unto the powers that rule above,
    If youthfulness were to endure for aye,
    Wherein a thousand sorrows yield one joy;
    Too gentle the decree
    Whence all that liveth doomed to death we see,
    Unless a gift were made,
    When men have finished half of their long way,
    Than death itself with greater terrors fraught;
    The worst of ills and the extreme of woe,
    Old age was found by an unswerving doom,
    Wherein desire doth glow,
    Hope wanes and pales and dwindles down to nought,
    The fountains of delight are frozen and quelled,
    The sorrow's greater, and all bliss withheld.

    Ye mountains and ye plains,
    When fall the rays that in the West adorn I
    With silvery trace the sable veil of night,
    Ye shall not be forlorn
    For many hours: the Eastern skies ere long
    Ye shall perceive aglow
    With break of day and early rise of morn,
    Whom following, the Sun his fires doth show,
    And blazing all around
    In full effulgence strong,
    With seas of light invades
    The space above and the terrestrial glades.
    But life of man, when lovely youth is spent,
    No other light hath found,
    Nor to existence other dawn is lent:
    'Tis lonely and bereaved even to its close:
    And to the night that weighs on later years,
    By the decree of doom,
    As goal is given the silence of the tomb.




    THE GENISTA

    OR

    THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT.


    "Men loved darkness rather than the light."
    ST. JOHN III., XIX.

    Here on the barren soil
    Of Mount Vesuvius dread,
    That fell destroyer stern
    Who doth delight no other flower or tree,
    Thy solitary blossoms thou dost spread,
    Fragrant Genista sweet,
    Rejoicing in the deserts. I beheld
    Thy flowers adorn the lonely hills that stand
    Around the city grand,
    That was of yore the Empress of mankind,
    And for the reign resigned,
    They with their dumb solemnity austere
    Seem from the wanderer to claim a tear.
    Now I again behold thee on this shore;
    Fond of sad haunts, abandoned by the world,
    Companion of misfortune evermore.
    These regions, sprinkled o'er
    With showers of barren ashes and supplied
    With lava petrified,

    Resounding to the pilgrim as he treads:
    Where we see twining in the sun the snake,
    And where in caverns dark
    The timorous hares their wonted refuge take:
    Were happy homes, and fields,
    Like those where harvest now its rich boon yields,
    Alive with lowing herds;
    They were palatial halls
    And wondrous gardens, dear
    Unto the great, and famous cities' walls:
    All which the haughty mountain with the torrents
    That from his fiery crater ruthless rolled,
    Crushed, while their inmates were by death destroyed.
    Now ruin makes a void
    Of all around where, beauteous flower, thou growest,
    And as in pity for the scene of woe
    Upon the air a perfume sweet bestowest,
    Consoling to the desert. To this shore
    Let him proceed whose wont it is to praise
    Our earthly state, and let him see how much
    Our race is held in care
    By loving Nature. And he here as well
    Can more exactly tell
    How far extends the power of human kind,
    Whom its harsh tyrant, when it least may fear,
    With slight exertion can destroy in part,
    And with a little more
    Could in an instant wholly sweep away,
    Annihilate, and slay.
    Upon these shores are seen
    Of our poor human race
    "The splendid fortunes and progressive pace."[9]
        Here gaze as on a mirror,
    Thou age unwise and proud,
    Who errest from the way
    That rising thought illumined with its ray,
    And as thy steps a backward course pursue,
    Art glad of thy return,
    Which seemeth progress to thy troubled view.
    Thy folly by all minds
    Whose evil destiny made thee their sire,
    Is pampered, even though
    They, when unheeded, throw
    Disdain on thee. Not I
    Will so inglorious sink into my grave,
    'Twere easy enough, I know,
    For me to join the others in their wrong
    And to thine ears melodious make my song:
    But rather the disdain of thee that lies
    Within my bosom deep,
    I shall, as widely as I can, display,
    Although neglect for those
    Be held in store who much their age oppose.
    This evil which I've borne
    With thee in common, moved till now my scorn.
    Fair freedom is the subject of thy dreams:
    Yet thou enslavest thought,
    By whom alone we're brought
    From rudeness by degrees, by whom alone
    Is culture fostered, who alone can send
    The fate of nations to a better end.
    So much didst thou in horror hold the truth
    Of the harsh doom and dungeon-like abode
    That Nature gave us. Therefore didst thou turn,
    With craven soul, thy vision from the light
    That made it clear; and in thy flight dost spurn
    As vile who seek its rays,
    And him alone dost praise,
    Who, scornful of himself or of the rest,
    Above the stars says man's degree is blest.

        He, poor of state and suffering of frame,
    Who has a generous and lofty soul,
    Doth not the homage claim
    That gold and strength procure,
    Nor of a splendid life and figure proud
    Maketh among the crowd
    An empty show absurd;
    But not with treasures or with vigour blessed
    He owns himself unfeigning, and is heard
    In discourse to be candid on himself,
    Still giving truth its due.
    Unwise I hold his mind,
    And not of loftier kind,
    Who, born to perish and in sorrow bred,
    ?Says: "I am made for joy;"
    And with unhallowed pride
    The annals of humanity supplied,
    Grand destinies and wondrous happiness,
    Which even to Heaven are strange, not to our globe
    Alone, predicting here
    To those whom stormy wave
    Or breath of air malignant, or the shock
    Of earthquake, so destroys
    That Memory scarcely lingers o'er their grave.
    A noble nature he
    Who with a spirit free
    Dares mortal eye to raise
    Upon our common fate; who with bold tongue,
    Debarring nought from truth,
    Owneth the evil Fortune bade prevail,
    And our low state and frail;
    Who in affliction dire
    Shows fortitude and lofty strength of soul,
    Nor the fraternal hatred and the ire
    So frequent on our earth, and worst of ills,
    Unto his misery addeth by declaring
    Man guilty of his woe, but casteth blame
    On her alone who merits all the shame,
    Who gives birth to mankind,
    But all whose deeds we harsh and cruel find.
    Her he calls hostile; and considering men,
    As truth itself declares,
    In union joined against her evil ways
    By social bonds of old,
    He as confederates doth all mortals hold
    Among themselves, and all
    With equal love surveys,
    And giveth aid where 'tis desired and needed
    In various peril and disastrous ways,
    Beset by common warfare. And to raise
    A vengeful hand for injuries of men,
    Our neighbour to destroy,
    So ill-advised he deems as on the field
    Of battle, close surrounded by the foe,
    When most the fight doth rage
    Against our friends to wage
    Disastrous war, oblivious of the rest,
    And with pernicious sword
    To spread dismay and slaughter 'mid their ranks.
    When thoughts like these are made,
    As once they were, unto the nations known,
    By real knowledge in its influence vast;
    And the dread horror shown
    That first 'gainst Nature bade
    Our humankind in social chain unite:
    Then shall the just, the honest and the right,
    And patriotic fire,
    And mercy find a more enduring source
    Than is supplied by haughty dreams and vain
    That now the vulgar righteousness sustain,
    Which proves itself even so
    As everything that doth from error flow.[10]

        Full often on this shore,
    Clad by the hardened flood
    Of lava in a garment dark of hue
    That seems to surge, I seat myself at night,
    And shining on the saddened land, the stars
    In plains of purest azure meet my view,
    Reflected by the deep;
    And through the space serene in circles vast
    The sparkling Heavens open on my sight,
    And when my vision on those lights I cast,
    That seem so small to be,
    And are in truth so large
    That by their side would shrivel land and sea
    To nothingness; to whom
    Not humankind alone
    Is utterly unknown,
    But even this globe where man is less than nought;
    And when I gaze upon those clustering stars
    In greater distance without any end,
    Seeming to us like vapour, unto whom
    Not merely man and not the earth he treads,
    But all the stars, the neighbours of our world,
    And even the golden radiance of the Sun,
    Were never known, or else appear as they
    Unto our sight, a spot
    Of luminous mist: what then unto my thought,
    Becomest thou, mankind?
    And when I bear in mind
    Thy state below, whereof the signs are seen
    Upon the soil I tread: and when I think
    Thy pride doth call thee queen
    And end of all, and how thou lovest oft
    To fable that unto this grain obscure
    Of wretched dust which bears the name of earth,
    For love of thee, of universal things
    The lords descended, and were known to dwell
    Benignly in thy midst: and that the dreams
    So idle even the present age renews,
    Opprobrious to the wise, although it seems
    In knowledge and in deed
    Superior to the past: what passion fires,
    O hapless race of man, what thought inspires
    For thee my heart? In truth, I cannot say
    If mockery or if pity beareth sway.

        As from its tree a ripened apple falling,
    By Autumn's power, nought else,
    Cast on the earth in full maturity,
    Crushes and overwhelms
    The populous abode of busy ants,
    Destroying all their hoarded treasures vast,
    The fruit of summer toil,
    Which they had piled in those elaborate caves
    Formed by their cunning in the yielding soil:
    Even thus in dread and thundering fury cast
    From the deep rumbling womb
    Of yon destructive mountain in its ire,
    Night and destruction in a cloud of ashes,
    Of rocks and lurid fire,
    Fall on the land devoted to its doom;
    And boiling torrents run
    And down the mountain flow
    With rapid wrath and all-consuming rage;
    And o'er the verdure falls
    A furious rush and grand
    Of liquid metal and of fiery sand,
    Such as o'erwhelmed the cities on the shore,
    And in an instant they were seen no more.
    On their deserted site
    We see the browzing goat,
    And other cities we behold arise,
    Beneath whose splendid domes
    Full many a vast and ancient ruin lies;
    And even these lofty walls
    The haughty mountain threatens and appals.
    Nature no more doth hold
    In tenderness and love
    The race of man than insects of the earth;
    And if we in mankind
    May less destruction find,
    'Tis that of offspring it has greater dearth.

        One thousand and eight hundred years have passed
    Since by the force of subterranean fire
    The peopled cities found an end so dire;
    And still the peasant full of anxious fears
    For what he planted on the arid soil,
    Amid the death-like ashes and the stones,
    Suspicious turns his eye
    To where he sees, aspiring to the sky,
    The fatal peak, as cruel as of yore,
    For ever threatening ruin to his home.
    And oft at night, alarmed,
    Lying for sleepless hours,
    In terror listening to the wandering wind,
    At last he rises and ascends his roof,
    And gazes thence upon the dreaded course
    Of boiling lava, rushing from the womb
    Of the unexhausted mount,
    O'er sandy ridge, and casting lurid light
    On Capri's distant strand,
    On Naples' bay and Mergellina's land.
    He wakes his children and his trembling wife,
    If he perceives it coming, or within
    His household well heats seething waters boil;
    And with whatever they can snatch in haste,
    Away they rush, and witness from afar
    Their dwelling and their field,
    From hunger and despair their only shield,
    By the disastrous torrents soon laid waste,
    That fiercely rush and cruelly invade,
    And lie for ever on the wreck they've made.
    Even as a skeleton that from its grave
    Is brought to light by piety or greed,
    The dead Pompeii to the realms of day
    From old oblivion doth again proceed:
    And from the ruined Forum and the file
    Of shattered columns tall,
    The wanderer gazes on the cloven peak
    And on the smoky crest,
    Still threatening even the ruins in their fall
    And in the horror of the secret night,
    Among theatres empty and forlorn,
    Among the mouldering temples and among
    The shattered houses where the bat doth hide,
    Like an ill-omened torch
    In empty fanes and halls untenanted,
    The terrors run of the funereal stream,
    Which in the shade doth gleam
    And tinges all around with fiery red.
    Of man unconscious and of all the years
    That he calls old, and offspring laid by sire,
    Thus Nature stands in ever-blooming youth;
    Or rather, she proceeds
    Upon a path so long, a course so wide,
    That to our eyes she never seems to move.
    Meanwhile realms fall, and tongues and nations wane
    She seeth nought, and man doth still presume
    Eternity to claim in haughty pride.

        And thou, slow-spreading flower,
    With many an odorous wood,
    Who dost adorn these regions desolate;
    Thou too ere long shalt sink beneath the power
    Of the unpitying subterranean fire,
    Which will extend its ire,
    Returning to the scene it knew of old,
    Unto thy gentle forests, and beneath
    The fatal weight thou wilt thy head incline,
    Though innocent, without a murmuring wail,
    But not till then in cowardice cast down
    With supplication and imploring prayer
    Before the future tyrant, but not raised
    With frenzied pride unto the very stars,
    Nor on the desert where
    Thou hadst thy dwelling-place,
    Not by thy will, by the decree of Fate:

    But wiser far, and less
    Ill-starred than man, because thou didst not think.

    Thy race endowed by Doom,
    Or by thyself, with an immortal bloom.


    [Footnote 9: Words of a modern writer to whom mil their elegance is
    due. (Leopardi's note.)]

    [Footnote 10: In these verses we perceive the germ of a whole system of
    ethics.]


    FINIS.


    POEMS

    TO ITALY.
    ON THE MONUMENT OF DANTE ABOUT TO BE ERECTED IN FLORENCE.
    TO ANGELO MAI
    ON THE MARRIAGE OF HIS SISTER PAOLINA.
    THE SOLILOQUY OF BRUTUS.
    TO SPRING; OR, THE FABLES OF ANTIQUITY.
    HYMN TO THE PATRIARCHS.
    THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.
    THE FIRST LOVE.
    THE LONELY BIRD.
    THE INFINITE.
    THE HOLIDAY NIGHT.
    TO THE MOON.
    SOLITUDE.
    TO HIS LOVE.
    THE REVIVAL.
    TO SILVIA.
    THE MEMORIES.
    THE NOCTURNAL SONG OF A NOMADIC SHEPHERD IN ASIA.
    THE RULING THOUGHT.
    LOVE AND DEATH.
    TO HIMSELF.
    ASPASIA.
    ON AN ANCIENT SEPULCHRAL BASSO RILIEVO REPRESENTING A MAIDEN
      TAKING LEAVE OF HER FRIENDS.
    THE SETTING OF THE MOON.
    THE GENISTA OR THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT.





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