The Poems Of Giacomo Leopardi Part 2

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 pa.s.sed, 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 n.o.ble 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 l.u.s.tre 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 n.o.ble 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 appet.i.tes 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 n.o.bler 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 ill.u.s.trious; Exulting in thy l.u.s.ty 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 Alpheus 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 sh.o.r.e 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 n.o.ble 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!