Read Ebook: The Poems of Leopardi by Leopardi Giacomo Cliffe Francis Henry Translator

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 150 lines and 41329 words, and 3 pages

style. He deserted the hackneyed vehicles of expression current in his day, the minute Sonnet and the elaborate Petrarchan Canzone. His thoughts, for the most part, flow in an easy and pellucid style through an alternation of rhymed and unrhymed verses. He knew, what so few poets of modern times even suspect, the value of economy. What he can say in one line, he does not dilute into five, If one simile suffices for his purpose, he does not regale the reader with ten. Bombast and grandiloquence he shunned, nay, he rather courted the other extreme of severe simplicity. Though a man of vast learning, he seldom indulged in allusions. In reading his poems we are brought into direct contact with Nature, and with her alone, so perfectly does he divest himself of every thought foreign to his present subject. His verses seem the inspiration of the moment, and not the result of elaborate study. We see him in the "Ricordanze," surveying the objects that revive the memories of the past; we see him in the little poem to the Moon, ascending the hill to behold the familiar radiance; we see him in the "Ginestra," gazing on the sparkling heavens and the fiery crater of Vesuvius, until we quite lose the sense of perusing a written performance.

And yet we know that he bestowed elaborate care on his works. He says himself that he had an ideal of unattainable perfection in his mind, which deterred him from writing works of great extent, whether in prose or verse. But that ideal I think he really has attained in some of his finest poems. The merit of his works, not only in degree, but in kind, is so immeasurably superior to that of his contemporaries, that we cannot find a standard for judging it without going back to the greatest masters of the art of poetry. I have no hesitation in placing him immediately after Dante and Ariosto for strength of poetical genius. He surpasses Petrarch in variety and comprehensiveness of mind, although he may not always equal him in richness of style. For genuine poetical inspiration in the purely lyrical sphere he has no rivals in modern times except Shelley, Keats, and Goethe. To prove that this eulogy is not exaggerated, we will now examine the "Canti" in the order of their arrangement.

"Di lor querela il boreal deserto, E conscie fur le sibilanti selve."

The apostrophe to Dante in the fifth stanza is full of fervour; but, perhaps the only instance of bombast to be found in our poet is the preceding address to the sculptors.

"O casi! O gener vano! Abbietta parte Siam delle cose."

He himself looked upon this as one of his most remarkable poems, but I cannot consider it one of the most beautiful; the thoughts are not always presented with all possible force, and the odd idea of animals committing suicide is rather ludicrous. But the poem is full of significance. Montefredini observes very justly: "It is the first wail of his tortured soul, the first malediction against the cruelty of Nature. The sentiment is powerful, and rushes forth furiously. So young, he is utterly miserable, and his opinions of life and the world are already full of despair. Even the calm aspect of nature wounds him as though it were an insult to his sorrow, a cruel mocking of the tempest of the soul.... The physical and mental life of Leopardi assumed too soon a fatal bent. As in his youth his bodily sufferings were excessive, so are his early poems finally and immensely sad. No other youthful poems contain so much despair or proceed from such a bleeding heart. Leopardi buries himself in his immense sorrow, deserting the region of airy fancy in which young poets delight.... This tumult of emotion proves that he had not yet resigned himself to his fate. He was not born for such bitter utterance, nor are these the fit inspirations of early poetry. Instead of the beautiful themes of joy, hope and fond desire, our poet can only sing of his despair."

"Che tra lontani monti, Dopo il giorno sereno, Cadendo si dilegua, e par che dica Che la beata giovent? vien meno,"

always seemed to me the most perfect instance of subjective colouring of nature in the whole range of poetry.

"E tu pendevi allor su quella selva Siccome or fai, che tutta la rischiari."

"Credei ch'ai tutto fossero In me, sul fier degl 'anni, Mancati i dolci affanni Della mia prima et?: I dolci affanni, i teneri Moti del cor profondo, Qualunque cosa al mondo Grato il sentir ci fa."

What melody and sweetness of style! How richly h e describes his gloom, and how vividly his revival to the joys of life!

"Meco ritorna a vivere La piaggia, il bosco, il monte; Parla al mio core il fonte, Meco favella il mar."

And how noble is the conclusion:

"Mancano, il sento, all anima, Alta, gentile e pura, La sorte, la natura, Il mondo e la belt?. Ma se tu vivi, O misero, Se non concedi al fato, Non chiamer? spietato Chi lo spirar mi d?."

Of the other poems I hope I have been able to give an almost adequate rendering; but of this, such a rendering was impossible. The sense is so blended with the music of the verse, and the music is so peculiar to the Italian language, that I doubt whether any translation could ever do it full justice. It is quite unique among his works. He never wrote anything before or afterwards even remotely like it. He seems to have revelled in the sweetness of the melody, and to have sported with his sorrow in the music of the lines.

"E che pensieri immensi, Che dolci sogni mi spir? la vista Di quel lontano mar, quei monti azzurri, Che di qua scopro, e che varcare un giorno Io mi pensava, acani mondi, acana Felicit? fingendo al viver mio!"

This superb passage is concluded with the utterance of tragic emotion:

"Ignaro del mio fato, e quante volte Questa mia vita dolorosa e nuda Volentier con la morte avrei cangiato."

Then, by a natural transition, he introduces the celebrated imprecation on Recanati, the energy of which leads us to forget its injustice. How beautifully is youth called "the solitary flower of barren life!" Still more beautiful is the following paragraph with its description of happy childhood. The apostrophe to his vanished hopes is full of sublimity, as also the picture of his gloomy meditations. The two last paragraphs make a worthy conclusion, especially the transcendant passage on Nerina, to which no parallel can be found in the whole range of lyric poetry.

"Che fai tu, Luna, in ciel? dimmi, che fai, Silenziosa Luna? Sorgi la sera, e vai, Contemplando i deserti; indi ti posi. Ancor non sei tu paga Di riandare i sempiterni calli? Ancor non prendi a schivo, ancor sei vaga Di mirar queste valli?"

"The picture of life in the second stanza," says Montefredini, "is as gloomily sublime as anything ever written of a similar nature. It seems laden with the sighs of oppressed humanity. And what repose amidst the universal darkness! What a style!--like the voice of an immortal. All is solemn, immense, eternal. This poem will ever be the poem of all nations--the noblest and grandest expression of human sorrow." Great praise is also due to the skill with which the poet preserves the character he has assumed. The shepherd does not enter into abstruse and subtle speculations--he only gives utterance to a vague wonder at the mystery of things, and this vagueness makes the poem deeply impressive. But still there remains something unsatisfactory in the latter part, and the gloom of the conclusion is exaggerated.

Otherwise it offers nothing remarkable.

"Gi? tutta l'aria imbruna, Torna azzurro il sereno, e tornan l'ombre Gi? da colli e da' tetti, Al biancheggiar della recente luna."

But the remainder of the poem is insufferably languid and trivial. Those two pieces are omitted in translation.

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 ? 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.

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.

TO ANGELO MAI

On His Discovering the Books of Cicero on the Republic.

ON THE MARRIAGE OF HIS SISTER PAOLINA.

THE SOLILOQUY OF BRUTUS.

TO SPRING;

OR,

THE FABLES OF ANTIQUITY.

HYMN TO THE PATRIARCHS.

And you the song of unrejoicing sons, Ye lofty fathers of the human race, Shall celebrate with praise; ye far more dear Unto the eternal Ruler of the stars, And much less sorrowing brought unto the light Sublime than we. Not piety and not The laws of Heaven imposed the unceasing ills That now afflict mankind, for sorrow born, And destined to discover greater joy In the nocturnal shadows of the tomb Than in the radiance of the orb of day. And if an ancient legend still doth tell The story of your ancient error dire That yielded man unto the tyranny Of suffering and grief; the guilt more fell, The more unquiet minds and frenzy fierce Of your descendants made the injured skies And Nature, in return for all her cares Spumed and neglected, feel indignant wrath: From which the fire of life a curse received, And mothers trembled at the load they bore, And Hell itself was imaged on the earth.

And thou from pouring skies and rolling seas That lashed the summits of the cloudy peaks, Didst save the germ of the ill-fated race, O thou to whom from sable space of air And from the mountains floating in the deep, A sign of hope restored by snowy dove Was brought; and from the ancient clouds emerging, The troubled sun upon the skies obscure Painted the bow of many beauteous hues. The rescued race returns unto the earth, Renewing evil deeds and ruthless thoughts And their pursuing terrors. To the reign Of oceans inaccessible it shows Its vengeful might, and beareth tears and grief To stars unknown and to remotest shores.

Now thee within my heart I meditate, And of thy race the generous descendants, Thou just and valourous father of the pious! I shall relate how, seated in the calm Meridian shadows of a quiet home, Beside the meads so dear unto thy flocks, Thy soul was blest by strangers from the Heavens Ethereal and disguised; and how, O son Of wise Rebecca! in the evening hour Beside the rustic well and in the vale Of Haran, cherished by the gentle shepherds In their gay leisure, love inspired thy heart For Laban's beauteous daughter: love supreme, Who to long exile and affliction long, And to the hated yoke of servitude, Made many a soul of haughty strength submit.

Once, truly once , this globe of ours benign And dear and pleasant to our race appeared, And golden was the tenour of our age. Not that with milk the fertile springs rushed forth, And from the mountains to the valleys spread; Nor with the flocks the tiger did resort In happy peace; nor with the wolves the shepherd Proceeded gaily to the crystal fount; But that our humankind lived without grief, Unconscious of the fate that o'er it hung, And of the woes impending; the sweet error, The fond delusions, and the pleasing veil Across the laws of Heaven and Nature thrown, Were all sufficient; and our quiet bark Was led into the haven of calm Hope.

THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

Fair is thy sight, O sky divine, and fair Art thou, O dewy earth! Alas, of all This beauty infinite, no slightest part To wretched Sappho did the Gods or Fate Inexorable give. Unto thy reign Superb, O Nature, an unwelcome guest And a disprized adorer, doth my heart And do mine eyes implore thy lovely forms; But all in vain. The sunny land around Smiles not for me, nor from ethereal gates The blush of early dawn; not me the songs Of brilliant feathered birds, not me the trees Salute with murmuring leaves; and where in shade Of drooping willows doth a liquid stream Display its pure and crystal course, from my Advancing foot the soft and flowing waves Withdrawing with affright, Disdainfully it takes through flowery dell its flight.

What fault so great, what guiltiness so dire, Did blight me ere my birth, that adverse grew To me the brow of fortune and the sky? How did I sin, a child, when ignorant Of wickedness is life, that from that time Despoiled of youth, and of its fairest flowers, The cruel Fates wove with relentless wrath The web of my existence? Reckless words Rise on thy lips; the events that are to be, A secret council guides. Secret is all, Our agony excepted. We were born, Neglected race, for tears; the reason lies Amid the gods on high. Oh cares and hopes Of early years! To beauty did the Sire, To glorious beauty an eternal reign Give o'er this humankind; for warlike deed For learned lyre or song, In unadorned shape, no charms to fame belong.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet