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

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.

Ah, let us die! The unworthy garb divested, The naked soul will take to Dis its flight, And expiate the cruel fault of blind Dispensers of our lot. And thou, for whom Long love in vain, long faith and fruitless rage Of unappeased desire assailed my heart, Live happily, if happily on earth A mortal yet hath lived. Not me did Jove Sprinkle with the delightful liquor from The niggard urn, since of my childhood died The dreams and fond delusions. The glad days Of our existence are the first to fly; And then disease and age approach, and last, The shade of frigid Death. Behold! of all The palms I hoped for, and the errors sweet, Hades remains; and the transcendent mind Sinks to the Stygian shore Where sable night doth reign, and silence evermore.

THE FIRST LOVE.

THE LONELY BIRD.

Upon the summit of the ancient tower Unto the land around, thou, lonely bird, Carollest sweetly till the evening hour, And through the vale thy melody is heard. Spring makes the gentle air Fragrant and bright, and animates the fields, Bidding the gazer in his heart rejoice. Hark to the lowing herds, the flocks that bleat, The other birds that full of joyaunce sing And in the air in happy circles meet, As though they homage to their fair time bring. Thou, full of thought, beholdest all aside, Nor carest to take wing With thy companions, scorning their delight. Thou singest, and the flower Of spring thus fadeth with thy life's sweet hour.

Ah me! how like to thine My habit doth appear! Pleasure and mirth, The happy offspring of our earlier age, And thou, Youth's brother, Love, Thou bitter sigh of our advancing years. I heed not; why, I cannot tell; but far From them I take my way; And like a hermit lone, Nor to my birthplace known, I see the spring of my existence die. This day that now is yielding to the night. Was in our hamlet ever festive held. Upon the air serene the bells resound And frequent firing of the distant guns, Arousing the deep echoes far and wide. In festival attire The youths and maidens go, Leaving their homes, upon the country paths, Rejoicing to be seen and to admire. I to this tower, remote From sight of men, repairing all alone, All joy and mirth postpone For other times; and as I gaze on high, The sun doth strike mine eye; Beyond the summit of yon mountain far, After the day serene, He sinketh to his rest, and seems to say That happy youth is leaving me for aye.

Thou, lonely warbler, coming to the close Of what the stars have granted thee to live, In truth of these thy ways Shalt not complain, for Nature on thee lays Thy fondness of repose. To me, if of old age The dreaded terrors stern I cannot from me turn, When to no heart this soul of mine can yearn, When void the earth will be, the future day More than the present, wearisome and grey: How will this lone mood seem? What shall I of myself in past years deem? Ah me! repent too late, And often gaze behind disconsolate.

THE INFINITE.

I always loved this solitary hill And this green hedge that hides on every side The last and dim horizon from our view. But as I sit and gaze, a never-ending Space far beyond it and unearthly silence And deepest quiet to my thought I picture, And as with terror is my heart o'ercast With wondrous awe. And while I hear the wind Amid the green leaves rustling, I compare That silence infinite unto this sound, And to my mind eternity occurs, And all the vanished ages, and the present; Whose sound doth meet mine ear. And so in this Immensity my thought is drifted on, And to be wrecked on such a sea is sweet.

THE HOLIDAY NIGHT.

The night is fair, without a breath of wind, And on the roofs and gardens full of peace The moon reposes and reveals afar Each mountain all serene. O my beloved! The haunts of men are silent; in their homes Rarely doth glimmer a nocturnal lamp. Thou art asleep, by gentle slumber wrapped Within thy quiet room; no carking care Disturbs thy rest; nor dost thou know or think How deep a wound thou openedst in my heart. Thou art asleep; I sally forth to greet The firmament, to gaze on so benign, And Nature, mighty in her ancient ways, Who made me but for woe. "To thee be hope Denied," she said, "even hope; and in thine eyes No other light, save that of tears, may shine." This day was full of pleasure; from thy pastime Thou now dost take repose: perchance in dreams Those who pleased thee and whom thyself did please, Thou seest; but not I, for all my hopes, Occur unto thy fancy. I, meanwhile, I ask myself how much of life remains For me to live, and here upon the earth, Moaning and shuddering, do I throw me down In utter desolation. O ye days So full of horror for such early years! Ah, woe is me! Upon the road not far I hear a workman's solitary song; After his joyaunce, in late hours of night He is returning to his poor abode; And bitterly my heart is rent in twain When I consider all on earth doth pass And leaveth not a trace. Behold! the day Of joy is gone, and to its festive hours The day of toil succeeds, and time doth take Whate'er belongs to man. Where, where is now The pride of ancient nations? Where the fame Of our renowned forefathers, and the vast Dominion of old Rome, the clash of arms Resounding o'er the ocean and the earth? All now is peace and silence, and the world Is wrapped in rest, and speaks of them no more. In those beginning years, when eagerly We seek the festive day, I lay awake When it was over, tossing full of grief Upon my bed; and in late hours of night A song I heard upon the road without, Expiring in the distance by degrees, With equal sorrow rent my heart in twain.

TO THE MOON.

O fair and gracious Moon! Well I remember A year hath passed, since up this very hill I came so full of anguish to behold thee: And o'er yon forest thou didst shed thy beams, As at this moment, filling it with light. But veiled in mist, and tremulous with tears That hung upon my lashes, to mine eyes Thy radiance did appear, for dark with woe Was then my life, and is, nor will it change, O Moon, thou my adored! And yet I love To bear in mind and one by one to count The slow years of my sorrow. Oh, how sweet It is to youth, when hope has yet a long, And memory has but a brief, career, To dwell in thought on things for ever past, Though they be sad and though affliction live!

SOLITUDE.

When on his roost the cock begins to crow And beat his wings; and to his work proceeds The tiller of the soil; and on the dews The rising sun his flashing rays doth cast: Upon the panes the morning shower doth beat, Awaking me from slumber with its sound: And I arise and bless the filmy clouds, The birds that tune their notes, the pleasant wind And the delightful verdure of the meads: Because, ye walls of unpropitious towns, I've seen and known ye far too well, where Hate Haunteth Affliction, where I sorrowing live, And so shall die, would it were soon! At least Some scanty pity is allowed my grief In these abodes by Nature, once, alas! How kinder far to me! And thou as well, O Nature, turnest from the wretched; full Of scorn for woe, thou payest homage vile To Happiness, the universal queen. In Heaven and Earth no friend for the ill-starred, No refuge, death excepted, doth remain! At times I seat me in a lonely spot, Upon a hill, or by a calm lake's bank, Fringed and adorned with flowers taciturn. There, when full mid-day heat informs the sky, His peaceful image doth the sun depict, And to the air moves neither leaf nor herb, And neither ruffling wave nor cricket shrill, Nor birds disporting in the boughs above, Nor fluttering butterfly, nor voice nor step Afar or near, can sight or hearing find. Those shores are held in deepest quietude: Whence I the world and even myself forget, Seated unmoved; and it appears to me My body is released, no longer worn With soul or feeling, and its old repose Is blended with the silence all around. O fleeting Love! full many a day is gone Since from my bosom thou hast ta'en thy flight, Though fired of yore by most impassioned zeal. It hath been blighted by the frigid hand Of cold misfortune, and is turned to ice Even in the time when it should blossom forth. The period I remember when thou first Didst hold thy court within this heart of mine. It was the time, irrevocably sweet, When youthful eyes are opened to the scene Of earthly sorrow, and it smiles on them As though it were a paradise below. The guileless heart of youth doth gladly beat For virgin hopes and for desires sublime; And the deluded mortal doth prepare For all the labours of his days to come, As if they were a joyous festival And gay carousah--But I scarcely saw, Love, thine approach, than Fortune harsh destroyed The tenour of my life, and to these eyes Nought else was seemly than eternal tears. But if at times along the sunny meads In early morn, or when meridian rays On hills and plains and houses shed their light, I see the features of a maiden fair; Or when in the untroubled quietude Of Summer night my vagrant steps proceed And guide me to the walls of near abodes, And I behold the lonely scene, and hear A maiden's thrilling voice, who in the hours Of silent night accompanies her work With joyous lay; emotion moves my heart That seemed a stone; but it, alas! returns Ere long to wonted gloom: a stranger now Is every tender feeling to my soul. O beauteous moon, unto whose tranquil ray The forest things display their love; and in The early dawn the hunter doth complain, Finding their traces intricate and false, Erroneous led astray: hail, O benign Nocturnal Queen! Unwelcome falls thy light In lonely wood or mountainous recess Or ruined building empty, on the steel Of pallid bandit, who with eager ears Hearkens afar unto the sound of wheels And horses' hoofs, or to the steps that tread The quiet road; then suddenly advancing, With clanking arms, and with a rough, rude voice. And with death-boding looks, chills with alarm The wanderer's heart, and leaves him on the earth Despoiled and well-nigh dead. Unwelcome comes Within the city precincts, thy clear light To paramour ignoble, who doth lurk Near walls and portals, hiding in the shade Of secret gloom, and standing still and dreading The lamps that through the windows pour their ray, And peopled halls. Unwelcome to base minds, To me benign for ever shall thy sight Amid the regions be, where nothing else Than happy hills and spacious fields thou showest Unto my gaze. And even I was wont, Though innocent my soul, to accuse thy ray Divinely fair in scenes inhabited, When offering me unto the sight of men, And showing human forms unto mine eye. Now shall I praise it ever, when I gaze Upon thee sailing 'mid the clouds, or thou Serenest ruler of ethereal spheres, Art looking down upon the abode of earth. Thou oft shalt see me, taciturn and lone, Wandering in bowers, or through the verdant meads, Or on the grass reclining, well content If I have leisure from deep heart to sigh.

TO HIS LOVE.

Loved beauty, who afar, Or hiding thy sweet face, Inspirest me with amorous delight, Unless in slumberous night, A sacred shade my dreamy visions trace Or when the day doth grace Our verdant meads and fair is Nature's smile: The age, devoid of guile, Perchance thou blessedst, which we golden style, And now amid the race Of men thou fliest, light as shadows are, Ethereal soul? Or did beguiling Fate Bid thee, veiled from our eyes, the future times await? To gaze on thee alive The hope henceforth is flown, Unless that time when naked and alone Upon new paths unto a dwelling strange My spirit shall proceed. When dawn did rive The early clouds of my tempestuous day, Methought thou wouldst upon earth's barren soil Be the companion of mine arduous range. But there is nought we on our globe survey Resembling thee; and if with careful toil We could discover any like to thee, She would less beauteous be, Though much of thine in face, in limb, and voice we'd see. Amid the floods of woe That Fate hath given to our years below, If son of man thy beauty did adore, Even such as I conceive it in my mind, He would existence, so unblessed before, Sweet and delightful find; And clearly doth to me my spirit tell That I to praise and glory would aspire, As in mine early years, for love of thee. But Heaven hath not deemed well To grant a solace to our misery; And linked to thee, existence would acquire Such beauty as on high doth bless the heavenly choir. Amid the shady vale Where sounds the rustic song Of the laborious tiller of the soil, Where seated I bewail The youthful error that was with me long, But now doth far recoil; And on the hills where I, remembering, weep The lost desires and the departed hope Of my sad days, the thought of thee doth keep My heart from death, and gives life further scope. Could I in this dark age and evil air, Preserve thine image in my soul most deep, 'Twere joy enough, for truth can never be our share. If an eternal thought Thou art, whom ne'er with mortal, fragile frame Eternal Wisdom suffers to be fraught, Or to become the prey Of all the sorrows of death-bringing life; Or if another globe, Amid the innumerable worlds that flame On high when Night displays her dusky robe, Thy beauty doth convey; Or star, near neighbour of the sun, doth leave Its light on thee while gentler breezes play: From where the days are short and dark with strife, This hymn of an unknown adorer, oh receive!

THE REVIVAL.

I thought that in me utterly In life's most fragrant flower The sweet woes had lost power, Born in my early years. The sweet woes and the tenderest Sighs of the heart profound, All things whereby a ground For joy in life appears.

How many tears and murmurings Did from my new state flow, When I my heart of snow Discovered void of pain! Gone was the wonted agony, And love I could not hold, And this my bosom cold Gave sighing up as vain.

I wept that life so desolate And waste for me was made, The earth in gloom arrayed, Closed in eternal frost; The day forlorn, the taciturn Night more obscure and lone; For me no kind moon shone; The stars in Heaven were lost.

But of that grief the origin In old affection lay; Within my bosom's sway My heart was still alive. Yet for the wonted images The weary fancy sighed; My sorrow's boundless tide With pain did ever strive.

Ere long in me that agony Of pain was wholly spent, And further to lament I had no courage left. I lay all senseless and amazed, I did not ask for balm; As though in death's last calm, My heart in twain was cleft.

I was from him how different, In whom did ardours shine, Who errors all divine Fed in his soul of yore! The early swallow vigilant, Who near the windows gay Salutes the rising day, Moved this my heart no more;

Nor did the Autumn pale and sere Where lonely I might dwell; Nor did the evening bell; Nor sun that sought the main. In vain I saw bright Hesperus Shine in celestial round, In vain the valleys sound With nightingale's sweet pain.

And ye, O eyes of tenderness And glances full of joy, Ye, unto lovers coy First love that never dies; And snowy hand of whitest grace That liest in my own; In vain your power is shown, My gloomy mood ne'er flies.

Bereft of every happiness, Sad, but not tempest-torn, I was not all forlorn, My brow became serene. I should have murmured for the end Of this my life of woe, If in me long ago Dead had desire not been.

Who the obscure, inglorious Repose bids me now miss? What virtue new is this, This that in me I find? Emotions sweet, imaginings Erroneous and sublime, Are ye not for all time The exiles of my mind?

Are ye in truth the only ray Of these my sable years, The loves I lost with tears In a more tender age? Though on the sky or verdant meads Or where I list, I gaze, Grief doth my soul amaze, And yet delights assuage.

And with my musing sympathize The plains, the woods and hills; My heart doth hear the rills, And murmur of the sea. Who after such forgetfulness Gives me the gift of tears? How is it the earth appears So changed and new to me?

Perchance fair Hope, O weary heart, Hath granted thee a smile? Ah! Hope, so full of guile, I'll ne'er again behold. My fond delusions and desires None else than Nature gave, My native ardour brave Grief did in bondage hold,

That not for weal solicitous She is, for life alone; She bids us live to groan, For nothing else she cares. I know that the unfortunate No pity find below, That from the sight of woe Men hurry unawares;

That this our age so reprobate Scorns virtue and renown; That glory fails to crown The noble, learned toil. And you, ye eyes so tremulous, Ye glances all divine, I know you idly shine, And far from love recoil.

And yet in me I feel revive The dear illusions known: My soul looks on its own Sensations with surprise. From thee, my heart, this last and fair Spirit and inborn fire, All comforts in my dire Grief, but from thee arise.

TO SILVIA.

Silvia, rememberest thou Yet that sweet time of thine abode on earth, When beauty graced thy brow And fired thine eyes, so radiant and so gay; And thou, so joyous, yet of pensive mood, Didst pass on youth's fair way?

The chambers calm and still, The sunny paths around, Did to thy song resound, When thou, upon thy handiwork intent, Wast seated, full of joy At the fair future where thy hopes were bound. It was the fragrant month of flowery May, And thus went by thy day.

I leaving oft behind The labours and the vigils of my mind, That did my life consume, And of my being far the best entomb, Bade from the casement of my father's house Mine ears give heed unto thy silver song, And to thy rapid hand That swept with skill the spinning thread along. I watched the sky serene, The radiant ways and flowers, And here the sea, the mountain there, expand. No mortal tongue can tell What made my bosom swell.

What thoughts divinely sweet, What hopes, O Silvia! and what souls were ours! In what guise did we meet Our destiny and life? When I remember such aspiring flown, Fierce pain invades my soul, Which nothing can console, And my misfortune I again bemoan. O Nature, void of ruth, Why not give some return For those fair promises? Why full of fraud Thy wretched offspring spurn?

Thou ere the herbs by winter were destroyed, Led to the grave by an unknown disease, Didst perish, tender blossom: thy life's flower Was not by thee enjoyed; Nor heard, thy heart to please, The admiration of thy raven hair Or of the enamoured glances of thine eyes; Nor thy companions in the festive hour Spoke of love's joys and sighs.

THE MEMORIES.

Ye stars of Ursa's sign, I did not think I should return, as formerly, to gaze Upon you, shining on my father's garden, And with you to hold parley from the windows Of this old mansion where in youth I dwelt, And of my joys beheld the bitter end. How many strange imaginings of yore Your aspect and the stars that near you shine, Created in my thoughts when 'twas my wont, In silence wrapped, on verdant sward reclining, To pass the hours of evening, gazing long Upon the sky and list'ning to the sound That issued from frog-haunted marshes far. 'Twas then the glow-worm hovered round the hedges And o'er the beds of flowers; while to the wind The fragrant alleys rustled, and beyond The cypress forest moaned; and 'neath our roof Voices proceeded, and the quiet work Of the attendants. And what thoughts immense, What sweetest dreams inspired me at the view Of that far-distant sea, those azure mountains, Which yonder I discern, and which some day I hoped to cross, an unknown world, unknown Felicity depicting to my years! This life of mine, so painful and so bare, I willingly with death would have exchanged!

Nor did my heart foretell I should be doomed To consummate my youthful years in this My native hamlet rude; amid a race Ribaldrous, vile; to which are names most strange, And often themes of mockery and jibes, Learning and science; and it hates and shuns me, Not out of envy, for it does not deem My worth superior, but because it knows That in my heart I think so, though thereof An outward sign to none I ever gave. Here do I pass my years, abandoned, hidden, And without love or life; and needs amid A rabble so malignant, bitter grow; Here I discard all pity and all virtue, And a despiser of mankind become, Because of those around me; and, meanwhile, The cherished time of youth escapes, more dear Than fame or laurels, dearer than the pure Radiance of day and vital breath; I lose thee Without a joy, and uselessly, in this Inhuman dwelling-place, immersed in woes, Of barren life thou solitary flower!

I hear the wind that wafts the striking time From yonder village-clock. I well remember That sound was the sole comfort to my nights, When as a child, in darkness of my room, I passed a sleepless vigil, full of terrors, Sighing for day. Around me there is nothing I see or hear, whence fancies old do not Return, or sweet remembrances arise, Sweet in themselves; but full of pain appears The present to my mind, the vain desire For what is past, though sad, the thought "I was!" Yon loggia, turned towards the dying light Of the expiring day; these pictured walls, Those herds that live in painting, and the sun O'er lonely country rising, to my leisure Gave many joys, what time my mighty error Beside me stood, wherever I might be, Prompting my heart. Here in these ancient halls, When shone the snow without, and stormy blasts Were whistling round these ample windows high, My pleasures had their scene, and my gay laugh Re-echoed in that time when we suppose The bitter, cruel mystery of things Entirely sweet; an inexperienced lover, Admiring heavenly beauty he conceives, The youth pays court unto his life which yet Before him lies untasted, unconsumed.

Ye hopes, ye vanished hopes, ye sweet illusions Of my beginning years! always in song To you I come; and although time doth fly, And thoughts do change, and even affections vary, Forget you, I shall never. Shades, I know, Are glory and honour, riches and delight, Merest desire; life doth not yield a fruit, Tis useless misery. And although empty Are these my years, and desolate and dark My lot on earth, I see that fortune keeps Little from me. Alas! but when my thoughts Recur to you, oh ye my ancient hopes! And to my fond imagining of yore, And then consider my existence, made So painful and so vile that death is all That of such high aspiring still is mine: I feel my heart contract, I feel that wholly There is no consolation for my fate. And when at last this long implored for death Shall come to me, and thus the end be reached Of all my woes; when to my soul this earth Shall be a vale remote; and from my sight The future shall escape: of ye in truth I will be mindful, and even then your image Will make me sigh, will make the thought most bitter That I have lived in vain, and even the sweetness Of dying it will temper with affliction.

Even in the earliest youthful turbulence Of happiness, of anguish, of desire, I often called for death; and long I sat Out there, upon the margin of yon fountain, And thought of ending in that lucid stream My hope and pain. But soon Misfortune blind Conducted me through life's most various maze, And I then wept for youth and for the flower Of my ill-fated days, that ere its time Withered; and often through belated hours Upon my bed reclining, mournfully Conning my verses at the lamp's dim ray, With silence and with night I did lament My spirit flying hence, and on myself In languid pain a funeral dirge I sang.

Who without sighing can remember ye, O early dawn of youth, O happy days Charming beyond narration? When on man Fair women first do smile and make him blest With tokens of their love; when all around Is radiant; when even envy still is silent, Not yet roused, or else kind; and when it seems, Oh unaccustomed miracle! the world Doth offer him a helping, generous hand, Forgives his errors, celebrated his new Arrival in this life, and full of homage Appears to hail him and receive him lord? Ah fleeting days! As swift as lightning's flash They disappear. And who of those on earth Can be to woe a stranger, if for him That season is no more, if his fair time, If youth, ah youth! for evermore be gone?

THE NOCTURNAL SONG

OF A

NOMADIC SHEPHERD IN ASIA.

Wherefore, O Moon, art thou on high? O say, Thou silent Moon serene! At night thou dost proceed, Our waste beholding, then dost sink to rest. Hast thou ne'er weary been Of repursuing the everlasting way? Untired as yet, still takest thou delight On earth to turn thy sight? Even as thy life on high, The shepherd's life doth fly. When dawn succeeds to night, He sallies forth and leads his flock to graze. He sees the grass and flowers, And, weary, resteth in nocturnal hours, Nor other hope doth raise. Say, Moon, what boots his life To humble swain, or thy Divine existence unto thee on high? Where doth my life below, Thy course immortal go?

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet