The Poems of Giacomo Leopardi | Page 4

166
Fragments 167
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