Chapter I: Preface (1)

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?

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

And do ye cherish still,
Illustrious shades, some hope of us?
Have we not perished utterly?
To you, perhaps, it is allowed, to read
The book of destiny. _I_ am dismayed,
And have no refuge from my grief;
For dark to me the future is, and all
That I discern is such, as makes hope seem
A fable and a dream. To your old homes
A wretched crew succeed; to noble act or word,
They pay no heed; for your eternal fame
They know no envy, feel no blush of shame.
A filthy mob your monuments defile:
To ages yet unborn,
We have become a by-word and a scorn.

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

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

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

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

But thou for these sweet dreams wast born,
And the _old_ sun upon thee shone,
Delightful singer of the arms, and loves,
That in an age far happier than our own,
Men’s lives with pleasing errors filled.
New hope of Italy! O towers, O caves,
O ladies, cavaliers,
O gardens, palaces! Amenites,
At thought of which, the mind
Is lost in thousand splendid reveries!
Ye lovely fables, and ye thoughts grotesque,
Now banished! And what to us remains?
Now that the bloom from all things is removed?
Alas, the sole, the certain thought,
That all except our wretchedness, is nought.

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

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

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

Devoured by anger and by grief,
His spotless life he passed,
Till from worse scenes released by death, at last.
O my Victorio, this was not for thee
The fitting age, or land.
Great souls congenial times and climes demand.
In mere repose we live content,
And vulgar mediocrity;
The wise man sinks, the mob ascends,
Till all at last in one dread level ends.
Go on, thou great discoverer!
Revive the dead, since all the living sleep!
Dead tongues of ancient heroes arm anew;
Till this vile age a new life strive to win
By noble deeds, or perish in its sin!

TO HIS SISTER PAOLINA,

ON HER APPROACHING MARRIAGE.

Since now thou art about to leave
Thy father’s quiet house,
And all the phantoms and illusions dear,
That heaven-born fancies round it weave,
And to this lonely region lend their charm,
Unto the dust and noise of life condemned,
By destiny, soon wilt thou learn to see
Our wretchedness and infamy,
My sister dear, who, in these mournful times,
Alas, wilt more unhappy souls bestow
On our unhappy Italy!
With strong examples strengthen thou their minds;
For cruel fate propitious gales
Hath e’er to virtue’s course denied,
Nor in weak souls can purity reside.

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

Women, to you our country looks,
For the redemption of her fame:
Ah, not unto our injury and shame,
On the soft lustre of your eyes
A power far mightier was conferred
Than that of fire or sword!
The wise and strong, in thought and act, are by
Your judgment led; nay all who live
Beneath the sun, to you still bend the knee.
On you I call, then; answer me!
Have _you_ youth’s holy aspirations quenched?
And are our natures broken, crushed by _you_?
These sluggish minds, these low desires,
These nerveless arms, these feeble knees.
Say, say, are you to blame for these?

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

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

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

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

TO A VICTOR IN THE GAME OF PALLONE.

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

_His_ hand was ne’er with blood barbaric stained,
At Marathon,
Who on the plain of Elis could behold
The naked athletes, and the wrestlers bold,
And feel no glow of emulous zeal within,
The laurel wreath of victory to win.
And he, who in Alphēus stream did wash
The dusty manes and foaming flanks
Of his victorious mares, _he_ best could lead
The Grecian banners and the Grecian swords
Against the flying, panic-stricken ranks
Of Medes, who, dying, Asia’s shore
And great Euphrates will behold no more.

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

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

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

THE YOUNGER BRUTUS.

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

“O foolish virtue, empty mists,
The realms of shadows, are thy schools,
And at thy heels repentance follows fast.
To you, ye marble gods
(If ye in Phlegethon reside, or dwell
Above the clouds), a mockery and scorn
Is the unhappy race,
Of whom you temples ask,
And fraudulent the law that you impose.
Say, then, does earthly piety provoke
The anger of the gods?
O Jove, dost thou protect the impious?
And when the storm-cloud rushes through the air,
And thou thy thunderbolts dost aim,
Against the _just_ dost thou impel the sacred flame?
Unconquered Fate and stern necessity
Oppress the feeble slaves of Death:
Unable to avert their injuries,
The common herd endure them patiently.
But is the ill less hard to bear,
Because it has no remedy?
Does he who knows no hope no sorrow feel?
The hero wages war with thee,
Eternal deadly war, ungracious Fate,
And knows not how to yield; and thy right hand,
Imperious, proudly shaking off,
E’en when it weighs upon him most,
Though conquered, is triumphant still,
When his sharp sword inflicts the fatal blow;
And seeks with haughty smile the shades below.

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

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

“And thou, white moon, art rising from the sea,
That with our blood is stained;
The troubled night dost thou survey,
And field, so fatal unto Italy.
On brothers’ breasts the conqueror treads;
The hills with fear are thrilled;
From her proud heights Rome totters to her fall.
And smilest thou upon the dismal scene?
Lavinia’s children from their birth,
And all their prosperous years,
And well-earned laurels, hast thou seen;
And thou _wilt_ smile, with ray unchanged,
Upon the Alps, when, bowed with grief and shame,
The haughty city, desolate and lone,
Beneath the tread of Gothic hordes shall groan.

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

TO THE SPRING.

OR OF THE FABLES OF THE ANCIENTS.

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

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

The flowers, the herbs _once_ lived,
The groves with life were filled:
Soft airs, and clouds, and every shining light
Were with the human race in sympathy,
When thee, fair star of Venus, o’er
The hills and dales,
The traveller, in the lonely night,
Pursuing with his earnest gaze,
The sweet companion of his path,
The loving friend of mortals deemed:
When he, who, fleeing from the impious strife
Of cities filled with mutiny and shame,
In depths of woods remote,
The rough trees clasping to his breast,
The vital flame seemed in their veins to feel,
The breathing leaves of Daphne, or of Phyllis sad;
And seemed the sisters’ tears to see, still shed
For him who, smitten by the lightning’s blast,
Into the swift Eridanus was cast.

Nor were ye deaf, ye rigid rocks,
To human sorrow’s plaintive tones,
While in your dark recesses Echo dwelt,
No idle plaything of the winds,
But spirit sad of hapless nymph,
Whom unrequited love, and cruel fate,
Of her soft limbs deprived. She o’er the grots,
The naked rocks, and mansions desolate,
Unto the depths of all-embracing air,
Our sorrows, not to her unknown,
Our broken, loud laments conveyed.
And _thou_, if fame belie thee not,
Didst sound the depths of human woe,
Sweet bird, that comest to the leafy grove,
The new-born Spring to greet,
And when the fields are hushed in sleep,
To chant into the dark and silent air,
The ancient wrongs, and cruel treachery,
That stirred the pity of the gods, to see.
But, no, thy race is not akin to ours;
No sorrow framed thy melodies;
Thy voice of crime unconscious, pleases less,
Along the dusky valley heard.
Ah, since the mansions of Olympus all
Are desolate, and without guide, the bolt,
That, wandering o’er the cloud-capped mountain-tops,
In horror cold dissolves alike
The guilty and the innocent;
Since this, our earthly home,
A stranger to her children has become,
And brings them up, to misery;
Lend thou an ear, dear Nature, to the woes
And wretched fate of mortals, and revive
The ancient spark within my breast;
If thou, indeed, dost live, if aught there is,
In heaven, or on the sun-lit earth,
Or in the bosom of the sea,
That pities? No; but _sees_ our misery.

HYMN TO THE PATRIARCHS.

OR OF THE BEGINNINGS OF THE HUMAN RACE.

Illustrious fathers of the human race,
Of you, the song of your afflicted sons
Will chant the praise; of you, more dear, by far,
Unto the Great Disposer of the stars,
Who were not born to wretchedness, like ours.
Immedicable woes, a life of tears,
The silent tomb, eternal night, to find
More sweet, by far, than the ethereal light,
These things were not by heaven’s gracious law
Imposed on you. If ancient legends speak
Of sins of yours, that brought calamity
Upon the human race, and fell disease,
Alas, the sins more terrible, by far,
Committed by your children, and their souls
More restless, and with mad ambition fixed,
Against them roused the wrath of angry gods,
The hand of all-sustaining Nature armed,
By them so long neglected and despised.
Then life became a burden and a curse,
And every new-born babe a thing abhorred,
And hell and chaos reigned upon the earth.

Thou first the day, and thou the shining lights
Of the revolving stars didst see, the fields,
And their new flocks and herds, O leader old
And father of the human family!
The wandering air that o’er the meadows played,
When smote the rocks, and the deserted vales,
The torrent, rustling headlong from the Alps,
With sound, till then, unheard; and o’er the sites
Of future nations, noisy cities, yet unknown
To fame, a peace profound, mysterious reigned;
And o’er the unploughed hills, in silence, rose
The ray of Phoebus, and the golden moon.
O world, how happy in thy loneliness,
Of crimes and of disasters ignorant!
Oh, how much wretchedness Fate had in store
For thy poor race, unhappy father, what
A series vast of terrible events!
Behold, the fields, scarce tilled, with blood are stained,
A brother’s blood, in sudden frenzy shed;
And now, alas, first hears the gentle air
The whirring of the fearful wings of Death.
The trembling fratricide, a fugitive,
The lonely shades avoids; in every blast
That sweeps the groves, a voice of wrath he hears.
_He_ the first city builds, abode and realm
Of wasting cares; repentance desperate,
Heart-sick, and groaning, thus unites and binds
Together blind and sinful souls, and first
A refuge offers unto mutual guilt.
The wicked hand now scorns the crooked plough;
The sweat of honest labor is despised;
Now sloth possession of the threshold takes;
The sluggish frames their native vigor lose;
The minds in hopeless indolence are sunk;
And slavery, the crowning curse of all,
Degrades and crushes poor humanity.

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

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

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

So lives, in California’s forests vast,
A happy race, whose life-blood is not drained
By pallid care, whose limbs are not by fierce
Disease consumed: the woods their food, their homes
The hollow rock, the streamlet of the vale
Its waters furnishes, and, unforeseen,
Dark death upon them steals. Ah, how unarmed,
Wise Nature’s happy votaries, are ye,
Against our impious audacity!
Our fierce, indomitable love of gain
Your shores, your caves, your quiet woods invades;
Your minds corrupts, your bodies enervates;
And happiness, a naked fugitive,
Before it drives, to earth’s remotest bounds.

THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

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

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

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