The Poems of Giacomo Leopardi | Page 4

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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