Giacomo Leopardi Collected Works Page 2

  In another place Ranieri says: “The malady of Leopardi was indefinable, for having its spring in the most secret sources of life, it was like life itself, inexplicable. The bones softened and dissolved away, refusing their frail support to the flesh that covered them. The flesh itself grew thinner and more lifeless every day, for the organs of nutrition denied their office of assimilation. The lungs, cramped into a space too narrow, and not sound themselves, expanded with difficulty. With difficulty the heart freed itself from the lymph with which a slow absorption burdened it. The blood, which ill renewed itself in the hard and painful respiration, returned cold, pale, and sluggish to the enfeebled veins. And in fine, the whole mysterious circle of life, moving with such great effort, seemed from moment to moment about to pause forever. Perhaps the great cerebral sponge, beginning and end of that mysterious circle, had prepotently sucked up all the vital forces, and itself consumed in a brief time all that was meant to suffice the whole system for a long period. However it may be, the life of Leopardi was not a course, as in most men, but truly a precipitation toward death.”

  Some years before he died, Leopardi had a presentiment of his death, and his end was perhaps hastened by the nervous shock of the terror produced by the cholera, which was then raging in Naples. At that time the body of a Neapolitan minister of state who had died of cholera was cast into the common burial-pit at Naples — such was the fear of contagion, and so rapidly were the dead hurried to the grave. A heavy bribe secured the remains of Leopardi from this fate, and his dust now reposes in a little church on the road to Pozzuoli.

  Leopardi as a young man

  In 1817 the classicist Pietro Giordani (1774-1848) arrived at the Leopardi estate and he was to become a lifelong friend to the young poet.

  Charlotte Napoléone Bonaparte (1802-1839) was the daughter of Joseph Bonaparte, the older brother of Emperor Napoleon I, and Julie Clary. Charlotte was a close friend of Leopardi.

  Leopardi in later years

  I Canti — Frederick Townsend translation, 1887

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION.

  TO ITALY. (1818.)

  ON DANTE’S MONUMENT, 1818. (THEN UNFINISHED.)

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

  TO HIS SISTER PAOLINA, ON HER APPROACHING MARRIAGE.

  TO A VICTOR IN THE GAME OF PALLONE.

  THE YOUNGER BRUTUS.

  TO THE SPRING. OR OF THE FABLES OF THE ANCIENTS.

  HYMN TO THE PATRIARCHS. OR OF THE BEGINNINGS OF THE HUMAN RACE.

  THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

  FIRST LOVE.

  THE LONELY SPARROW.

  THE INFINITE.

  THE EVENING OF THE HOLIDAY.

  TO THE MOON.

  THE DREAM.

  THE LONELY LIFE.

  CONSALVO.

  TO THE BELOVED.

  TO COUNT CARLO PEPOLI.

  THE RESURRECTION.

  TO SYLVIA.

  RECOLLECTIONS.

  NIGHT SONG OF A WANDERING SHEPHERD IN ASIA.

  CALM AFTER STORM.

  THE VILLAGE SATURDAY NIGHT.

  THE RULING THOUGHT.

  LOVE AND DEATH.

  TO HIMSELF.

  ASPASIA.

  ON AN OLD SEPULCHRAL BAS-RELIEF. WHERE IS SEEN A YOUNG MAIDEN, DEAD, IN THE ACT OF DEPARTING, TAKING LEAVE OF HER FAMILY.

  ON THE PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN, CARVED ON HER MONUMENT.

  PALINODIA. TO THE MARQUIS GINO CAPPONI.

  THE SETTING OF THE MOON.

  THE GINESTRA, OR THE FLOWER OF THE WILDERNESS.

  IMITATION.

  SCHERZO.

  FRAGMENTS.

  First edition of ‘I Canti’

  TO

  M. N. M.

  SISTER OF THE TRANSLATOR

  THESE POEMS

  ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED

  BY

  THE EDITOR

  Original manuscript of ‘L’Infinito’

  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.

  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,