The Poems Of Giacomo Leopardi Part 3

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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.es, 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 G.o.ds implacable Of heaven and h.e.l.l 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 G.o.ds (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 G.o.ds?

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 G.o.ds.

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 G.o.ddess 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 sh.o.r.es 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' b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 s.h.i.+nes one star less brightly in the sky.

Not the deaf kings of heaven or h.e.l.l, 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 G.o.ddess 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 Erida.n.u.s 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 G.o.ds, 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.

Ill.u.s.trious 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 G.o.ds, 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 h.e.l.l and chaos reigned upon the earth.

Thou first the day, and thou the s.h.i.+ning 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-enc.u.mbered hills, The white dove brought the sign of hope renewed, And sinking in the west, the s.h.i.+pwrecked 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 l.u.s.t, With their attendant ills. Audacious man Defies the threats of the avenging sea, And to new sh.o.r.es 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 sh.o.r.es, 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.