The Poems of Giacomo Leopardi | Page 5

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 up Anthela's hill, where,
e'en in death
The sacred Band immortal life obtained,
Simonides
slow-climbing, thoughtfully,
Looked forth on sea and shore and sky.

And then, his cheeks with tears bedewed,
And heaving breast, and
trembling foot, he stood,
His lyre in hand and sang:
"O ye, forever
blessed,
Who bared your breasts unto the foeman's lance,
For love
of her, who gave you birth;
By Greece revered, and by the world
admired,
What ardent love your youthful minds inspired,
To rush to
arms, such perils dire to meet,
A fate so hard, with loving smiles to

greet?
Her children, why so joyously,
Ran ye, that stern and rugged
pass to guard?
As if unto a dance,
Or to some splendid feast,
Each
one appeared to haste,
And not grim death Death to brave;
But
Tartarus awaited ye,
And the cold Stygian wave;
Nor were your
wives or children at your side,
When, on that rugged shore,
Without
a kiss, without a tear, ye died.
But not without a fearful blow
To
Persians dealt, and their undying shame.
As at a herd of bulls a lion
glares,
Then, plunging in, upon the back
Of this one leaps, and with
his claws
A passage all along his chine he tears,
And fiercely drives
his teeth into his sides,
Such havoc Grecian wrath and valor made

Amongst the Persian ranks, dismayed.
Behold each prostrate rider
and his steed;
Behold the chariots, and the fallen tents,
A tangled
mass their flight impede;
And see, among the first to fly,
The tyrant,
pale, and in disorder wild!
See, how the Grecian youths,
With blood
barbaric dyed,
And dealing death on every side,
By slow degrees by
their own wounds subdued,
The one upon the other fall. Farewell,

Ye heroes blessed, whose names shall live,
While tongue can speak,
or pen your story tell!
Sooner the stars, torn from their spheres, shall
hiss,
Extinguished in the bottom of the sea,
Than the dear memory,
and love of you,
Shall suffer loss, or injury.
Your tomb an altar is;
the mothers here
Shall come, unto their little ones to show
The
lovely traces of your blood. Behold,
Ye blessed, myself upon the
ground I throw,

And kiss these stones, these clods
Whose fame,
unto the end of time,
Shall sacred be in every clime.
Oh, had I, too,
been here with you,
And this dear earth had moistened with my blood!

But since stern Fate would not consent
That I for Greece my dying
eyes should close,
In conflict with her foes,
Still may the gracious
gods accept
The offering I bring,
And grant to me the precious boon,

Your Hymn of Praise to sing!"
ON DANTE'S MONUMENT, 1818.
(THEN UNFINISHED.)

Though all the nations now
Peace gathers under her white wings,

The minds of Italy will ne'er be free
From the restraints of their old
lethargy,
Till our ill-fated land cling fast
Unto the glorious
memories of the Past.
Oh, lay it to thy heart, my Italy,
Fit honor to
thy dead to pay;
For, ah, their like walk not thy streets to-day!
Nor
is there one whom thou canst reverence!
Turn, turn, my country, and
behold
That noble band of heroes old,
And weep, and on thyself thy
anger vent,
For without anger, grief is impotent:
Oh, turn, and rouse
thyself for shame,
Blush at the thought of sires so great,
Of children
so degenerate!
Alien in mien, in genius, and in speech,
The eager guest from far

Went searching through the Tuscan soil to find
Where he reposed,
whose verse sublime
Might fitly rank with Homer's lofty rhyme;

And oh! to our disgrace he heard
Not only that, e'er since his dying
day,
In other soil his bones in exile lay,
But not a stone within thy
walls was reared
To him, O Florence, whose renown
Caused thee to
be by all the world revered.
Thanks to the brave, the generous band,

Whose timely labor from our land
Will this sad, shameful stain
remove!
A noble task is yours,
And every breast with kindred zeal
hath fired,
That is by love of Italy inspired.
May love of Italy inspire you still,
Poor mother, sad and lone,
To
whom no pity now
In any breast is shown,
Now, that to golden days
the evil days succeed.
May pity still, ye children dear,
Your hearts
unite, your labors crown,
And grief and anger at her cruel pain,
As
on her cheeks and veil the hot tears rain!

But how can I, in speech or
song,
Your praises fitly sing,
To whose mature and careful thought,

The work superb, in your proud task achieved,
Will fame immortal
bring?
What notes of cheer can I now send to you,
That may unto
your ardent souls appeal,
And add new fervor to your zeal?
Your lofty theme will inspiration give,
And its sharp thorns within
your bosoms lodge.
Who can describe the whirlwind and the storm


Of your deep anger, and your deeper love?
Who can your
wonder-stricken looks portray,
The lightning in your eyes that gleams?

What mortal tongue can such celestial themes
In language fit
describe?
Away