Part 3

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.