Chapter 1

THE POEMS OF GIACOMO LEOPARDI

TRANSLATED BY FREDERICK TOWNSEND

NEW YORK AND LONDON G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS The Knickerbocker Press 1887

COPYRIGHT BY R. T. TOWNSEND 1887

Press of G. P. Putnam’s Sons New York

TO M. N. M. SISTER OF THE TRANSLATOR THESE POEMS ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE EDITOR

PREFACE.

Giacomo Leopardi is a great name in Italy among philosophers and poets, but is quite unknown in this country, and Mr. Townsend has the honor of introducing him, in the most captivating way, to his countrymen. In Germany and France he has excited attention. Translations have been made of his works; essays have been written on his ideas. But in England his name is all but unheard of. Six or seven years ago Mr. Charles Edwards published a translation of the essays and dialogues, but no version of the poems has appeared, so far as I know. Leopardi was substantially a poet,—that is to say, he had imagination, sentiment, passion, an intense love of beauty, a powerful impulse towards things ideal. The sad tone of his speculations about the universe and human destiny gave an impression of mournfulness to his lines, but this rather deepened the pathos of his work. In the same breath he sang of love and the grave, and the love was the more eager for its brevity. He had the poetic temperament—sensitive, ardent, aspiring. He possessed the poetic aspect—the broad white brow, the large blue eyes. Some compared him to Byron, but the resemblance was external merely. In ideas, purpose, feeling, he was entirely unlike the Englishman; in the energy and fire of his style only did he somewhat resemble him. Worshippers have even ventured to class him with Dante, a comparison which shows, at least, in what estimation the poet could be held at home, and how largely the patriotic sentiment entered into the conception of poetical compositions, how necessary it was that the singer should be a bard. His verses ranged over a large field. They were philosophic, patriotic, amorous. There are odes, lyrics, satires, songs; many very beautiful and feeling; all noble and earnest. His three poems, “All’ Italia,” “Sopra il Monumento di Dante,” “A Angelo Mai,” gave him a national reputation. They touch the chords to which he always responded—patriotism, poetry, learning, a national idealism bearing aloft an enormous weight of erudition and thought.

Leopardi was born at Recanati, a small town about fifteen miles from Ancona, in 1798. He was of noble parentage, though not rich. His early disposition was joyous, but with the feverish joy of a highly-strung, nervous organization. He was a great student from boyhood; and severe application undermined a system that was never robust, and that soon became hopelessly diseased. Illness, accompanied with sharp pain, clipped the wings of his ambition, obliged him to forego preferment, and deepened the hopelessness that hung over his expectations. His hunger for love could not be satisfied, for his physical infirmity rendered a union undesirable, even if possible, while a craving ideality soon transcended any visible object of affection. He had warm friends of his own sex, one of whom, Antonio Ranieri, stayed by him in all vicissitudes, took him to Naples, and closed his eyes, June 14, 1837.

To this acute sensibility of frame must be added the torture of the heart arising from a difference with his father, who, as a Catholic, was disturbed by the skeptical tendencies of his son, and the perpetual irritation of a conflict with the large majority of even philosophical minds. An early death might have been anticipated. No amount of hopefulness, of zest for life, of thirst for opportunity, of genius for intellectual productiveness will counteract such predisposition to decay. The death of the body, however, has but ensured a speedier immortality of the soul; for many a thinker has since been busy in gathering up the fragments of his mind and keeping his memory fresh. His immense learning has been forgotten. His archæological knowledge, which fascinated Niebuhr, is of small account to-day. But his speculative and poetical genius is a permanent illumination.

Mr. Townsend, the translator, well known in New York, where he was born, lived ten years in Italy, and seven in Rome. He was a studious, thoughtful man; quiet, secluded, scholarly; an eminent student of Italian literature; a real sympathizer with Italian progress. By the cast of his mind and the course of his inward experience he was drawn towards Leopardi. His version adheres as closely to the original as is compatible with elegance and the preservation of metrical grace. He has not rendered into English all Leopardi’s poems, but he has presented the best of them, enough to give an idea of his author’s style of feeling and expression. What he has done, has been performed faithfully. It is worth remarking that he was attracted by the intense longing of the poet for love and appreciation, and by keen sympathy with his unhappy condition. It is needless to say that he did not share the pessimism that imparts a melancholy hue to the philosopher’s own doctrine, and that might have been modified if not dispelled by a different experience. The translation was finished at Siena, the summer of the earthquake, and was the last work Mr. Townsend ever did, the commotion outside not interrupting him, or causing him to suspend his application.

O. B. Frothingham.

CONTENTS.

Dedication xiii To Italy 1 On Dante’s Monument 7 To Angelo Mai 15 To His Sister Paolina 23 To a Victor in the Game of _Pallone_ 27 The Younger Brutus 30 To the Spring 35 Hymn to the Patriarchs 40 The Last Song of Sappho 45 First Love 48 The Lonely Sparrow 53 The Infinite 56 The Evening of the Holiday 57 To The Moon 59 The Dream 60 The Lonely Life 64 Consalvo 68 To the Beloved 74 To Count Carlo Pepoli 77 The Resurrection 84 To Sylvia 92 Recollections 95 Night-Song of a Wandering Shepherd in Asia 102 Calm after Storm 108 The Village Saturday-Night 110 The Ruling Thought 113 Love and Death 119 To Himself 124 Aspasia 125 On an Old Sepulchral Bas-Relief 130 On the Portrait of a Beautiful Woman 135 Palinodia 138 The Setting of the Moon 149 The Ginestra 152 Imitation 165 Scherzo 166 Fragments 167

Dedication.

[From the first Florentine Edition of the Poems, in the year 1831.]

To my Friends in Tuscany:

My dear Friends, I dedicate this book to you, in which, as is oft the case with Poets, I have sought to illustrate my sorrow, and with which I now—I cannot say it without tears—take leave of Literature and of my studies. I hoped these dear studies would have been the consolation of my old age, and thought, after having lost all the other joys and blessings of childhood and of youth, I had secured _one_, of which no power, no unhappiness could rob me. But I was scarcely twenty years old, when that weakness of nerves and of stomach, which has destroyed my life, and yet gives me no hope of death, robbed that only blessing of more than half its value, and, in my twenty-eighth year, has utterly deprived me of it, and, as I _must_ think, forever. I have not been able to read these pages, and have been compelled to entrust their revision to other eyes and other hands. I will utter no more complaints, my dear friends; the consciousness of the depth of my affliction admits not of complaints and lamentations. I have lost all; I am a withered branch, that feels and suffers still. _You_ only have I won! Your society, which must compensate me for all my studies, joys, and hopes, would almost outweigh my sorrows, did not my very sickness prevent me from enjoying it as I could wish, and did I not know that Fate will soon deprive me of this benefit, also, and will compel me to spend the remainder of my days, far from all the delights of civilized life, in a spot, far better suited to the dead than to the living. Your love, meanwhile, will ever follow me, and will yet cling to me, perhaps, when this body, which, indeed, no longer lives, shall be turned to ashes. Farewell! Your

Leopardi.

TO ITALY. (1818.)

My country, I the walls, the arches see, The columns, statues, and the towers Deserted, of our ancestors; But, ah, the glory I do not behold, The laurel and the sword, that graced Our sires of old. Now, all unarmed, a naked brow, A naked breast dost thou display. Ah, me, how many wounds, what stains of blood! Oh, what a sight art thou, Most beautiful of women! I To heaven cry aloud, and to the world: “Who hath reduced her to this pass? Say, say!” And worst of all, alas, See, both her arms in chains are bound! With hair dishevelled, and without a veil She sits, disconsolate, upon the ground, And hides her face between her knees, As she bewails her miseries. Oh, weep, my Italy, for thou hast cause; Thou, who wast born the nations to subdue, As victor, and as victim, too! Oh, if thy eyes two living fountains were, The volume of their tears could ne’er express Thy utter helplessness, thy shame; Thou, who wast once the haughty dame, And, now, the wretched slave. Who speaks, or writes of thee, That must not bitterly exclaim: “She once was great, but, oh, behold her now”? Why hast thou fallen thus, oh, why? Where is the ancient force? Where are the arms, the valor, constancy? Who hath deprived thee of thy sword? What treachery, what skill, what labor vast, Or what o’erwhelming horde Whose fierce, invading tide, thou could’st not stem, Hath robbed thee of thy robe and diadem? From such a height how couldst thou fall so low? Will none defend thee? No? No son of thine? For arms, for arms, I call; Alone I’ll fight for thee, alone will fall. And from my blood, a votive offering, May flames of fire in every bosom spring! Where are thy sons? The sound of arms I hear, Of chariots, of voices, and of drums; From foreign lands it comes, For which thy children fight. Oh, hearken, hearken, Italy! I see,— Or is it but a dream?— A wavering of horse and foot, And smoke, and dust, and flashing swords, That like the lightning gleam. Art thou not comforted? Dost turn away Thy eyes, in horror, from the doubtful fray? Ye gods, ye gods. Oh, can it be? The youth of Italy Their hireling swords for other lands have bared! Oh, wretched he in war who falls, Not for his native shores, His loving wife and children dear, But, fighting for another’s gain, And by another’s foe is slain! Nor can he say, as his last breath he draws, “My mother-land, beloved, ah see, The life thou gav’st, I render back to thee!” Oh fortunate and dear and blessed, The ancient days, when rushed to death the brave, In crowds, their country’s life to save! And you, forever glorious, Thessalian straits, Where Persia, Fate itself, could not withstand The fiery zeal of that devoted band! Do not the trees, the rocks, the waves, The mountains, to each passer-by, With low and plaintive voice tell The wondrous tale of those who fell, Heroes invincible who gave Their lives, their Greece to save? Then cowardly as fierce, Xerxes across the Hellespont retired, A laughing-stock to all succeeding time; And up Anthela’s hill, where, e’en in death The sacred Band immortal life obtained, Simonides slow-climbing, thoughtfully, Looked forth on sea and shore and sky. And then, his cheeks with tears bedewed, And heaving breast, and trembling foot, he stood, His lyre in hand and sang: “O ye, forever blessed, Who bared your breasts unto the foeman’s lance, For love of her, who gave you birth; By Greece revered, and by the world admired, What ardent love your youthful minds inspired, To rush to arms, such perils dire to meet, A fate so hard, with loving smiles to greet? Her children, why so joyously, Ran ye, that stern and rugged pass to guard? As if unto a dance, Or to some splendid feast, Each one appeared to haste, And not grim death Death to brave; But Tartarus awaited ye, And the cold Stygian wave; Nor were your wives or children at your side, When, on that rugged shore, Without a kiss, without a tear, ye died. But not without a fearful blow To Persians dealt, and their undying shame. As at a herd of bulls a lion glares, Then, plunging in, upon the back Of this one leaps, and with his claws A passage all along his chine he tears, And fiercely drives his teeth into his sides, Such havoc Grecian wrath and valor made Amongst the Persian ranks, dismayed. Behold each prostrate rider and his steed; Behold the chariots, and the fallen tents, A tangled mass their flight impede; And see, among the first to fly, The tyrant, pale, and in disorder wild! See, how the Grecian youths, With blood barbaric dyed, And dealing death on every side, By slow degrees by their own wounds subdued, The one upon the other fall. Farewell, Ye heroes blessed, whose names shall live, While tongue can speak, or pen your story tell! Sooner the stars, torn from their spheres, shall hiss, Extinguished in the bottom of the sea, Than the dear memory, and love of you, Shall suffer loss, or injury. Your tomb an altar is; the mothers here Shall come, unto their little ones to show The lovely traces of your blood. Behold, Ye blessed, myself upon the ground I throw, And kiss these stones, these clods Whose fame, unto the end of time, Shall sacred be in every clime. Oh, had I, too, been here with you, And this dear earth had moistened with my blood! But since stern Fate would not consent That I for Greece my dying eyes should close, In conflict with her foes, Still may the gracious gods accept The offering I bring, And grant to me the precious boon, Your Hymn of Praise to sing!”

ON DANTE’S MONUMENT, 1818.

(THEN UNFINISHED.)

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

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

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

Your lofty theme will inspiration give, And its sharp thorns within your bosoms lodge. Who can describe the whirlwind and the storm Of your deep anger, and your deeper love? Who can your wonder-stricken looks portray, The lightning in your eyes that gleams? What mortal tongue can such celestial themes In language fit describe? Away ye souls, profane, away! What tears will o’er this marble stone be shed! How can it fall? How fall your fame sublime, A victim to the envious tooth of Time? O ye, that can alleviate our woes, Sole comfort of this wretched land, Live ever, ye dear Arts divine, Amid the ruins of our fallen state, The glories of the past to celebrate! I, too, who wish to pay Due honor to our grieving mother, bring Of song my humble offering, As here I sit, and listen, where Your chisel life unto the marble gives. O thou, illustrious sire of Tuscan song, If tidings e’er of earthly things, Of _her_, whom thou hast placed so high, Could reach your mansions in the sky, I know, thou for thyself no joy wouldst feel, For, with thy fame compared, Renowned in every land, Our bronze and marble are as wax and sand; If thee we _have_ forgotten, _can_ forget, May suffering still follow suffering, And may thy race to all the world unknown, In endless sorrows weep and moan.

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

O happy thou, whom Fate did not condemn To live amid such horrors; who Italian wives didst not behold By ruffian troops embraced; Nor cities plundered, fields laid waste By hostile spear, and foreign rage; Nor works divine of genius borne away In sad captivity, beyond the Alps, The roads encumbered with the precious prey; Nor foreign rulers’ insolence and pride; Nor didst insulting voices hear, Amidst the sound of chains and whips, The sacred name of Liberty deride. Who suffers not? Oh! at these wretches’ hands, What have we not endured? From what unholy deed have they refrained? What temple, altar, have they not profaned? Why have we fallen on such evil times? Why didst thou give us birth, or why No sooner suffer us to die, O cruel Fate? We, who have seen Our wretched country so betrayed, The handmaid, slave of impious strangers made, And of her ancient virtues all bereft; Yet could no aid or comfort give. Or ray of hope, that might relieve The anguish of her soul. Alas, my blood has not been shed for thee, My country dear! Nor have I died That thou mightst live! My heart with anger and with pity bleeds. Ah, bitter thought! Thy children fought and fell; But not for dying Italy, ah, no, But in the service of her cruel foe!

Father, if this enrage thee not, How changed art thou from what thou wast on earth! On Russia’s plains, so bleak and desolate, They died, the sons of Italy; Ah, well deserving of a better fate! In cruel war with men, with beasts, The elements! In heaps they strewed the ground; Half-clad, emaciated, stained with blood, A bed of ice for their sick frames they found. Then, when the parting hour drew near, In fond remembrance of that mother dear, They cried: “Oh had we fallen by the foeman’s hand, And not the victims of the clouds and storms, And for _thy_ good, our native land! Now, far from thee, and in the bloom of youth, Unknown to all, we yield our parting breath, And die for _her_, who caused our country’s death!”

The northern desert and the whispering groves, Sole witnesses of their lament, As thus they passed away! And their neglected corpses, as they lay Upon that horrid sea of snow exposed, Were by the beasts consumed; The memories of the brave and good, And of the coward and the vile, Unto the same oblivion doomed! Dear souls, though infinite your wretchedness, Rest, rest in peace! And yet what peace is yours, Who can no comfort ever know While Time endures! Rest in the depths of your unmeasured woe, O ye, _her_ children true, Whose fate alone with hers may vie, In endless, hopeless misery!

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

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

TO ANGELO MAI,

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

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