The Poems of Giacomo Leopardi | Page 6

ye souls, profane, away!
What tears will o'er this
marble stone be shed!
How can it fall? How fall your fame sublime,

A victim to the envious tooth of Time?
O ye, that can alleviate our
woes,
Sole comfort of this wretched land,
Live ever, ye dear Arts
divine,
Amid the ruins of our fallen state,
The glories of the past to
celebrate!
I, too, who wish to pay
Due honor to our grieving mother,
bring
Of song my humble offering,
As here I sit, and listen, where

Your chisel life unto the marble gives.
O thou, illustrious sire of
Tuscan song,
If tidings e'er of earthly things,
Of _her_, whom thou
hast placed so high,
Could reach your mansions in the sky,
I know,
thou for thyself no joy wouldst feel,
For, with thy fame compared,

Renowned in every land,
Our bronze and marble are as wax and sand;

If thee we _have_ forgotten, _can_ forget,
May suffering still
follow suffering,
And may thy race to all the world unknown,
In
endless sorrows weep and moan.
Thou for thyself no joy wouldst feel,
But for thy native land,
If the
example of their sires
Could in the cold and sluggish sons
Renew
once more the ancient fires,
That they might lift their heads in pride
again.
Alas, with what protracted sufferings
Thou seest her afflicted,
that, e'en then
Did seem to know no end,
When thou anew didst
unto Paradise ascend!
Reduced so low, that, as thou seest her now,

She then a happy Queen appeared.

Such misery her heart doth grieve,

As, seeing, thou canst not thy eyes believe.
And oh, the last, most
bitter blow of all,
When on the ground, as she in anguish lay,
It
seemed, indeed, thy country's dying day!
O happy thou, whom Fate did not condemn
To live amid such horrors;
who
Italian wives didst not behold
By ruffian troops embraced;

Nor cities plundered, fields laid waste
By hostile spear, and foreign

rage;
Nor works divine of genius borne away
In sad captivity,
beyond the Alps,
The roads encumbered with the precious prey;

Nor foreign rulers' insolence and pride;
Nor didst insulting voices
hear,
Amidst the sound of chains and whips,
The sacred name of
Liberty deride.
Who suffers not? Oh! at these wretches' hands,

What have we not endured?
From what unholy deed have they
refrained?
What temple, altar, have they not profaned?
Why have
we fallen on such evil times?
Why didst thou give us birth, or why

No sooner suffer us to die,
O cruel Fate? We, who have seen
Our
wretched country so betrayed,
The handmaid, slave of impious
strangers made,
And of her ancient virtues all bereft;
Yet could no
aid or comfort give.
Or ray of hope, that might relieve
The anguish
of her soul.
Alas, my blood has not been shed for thee,
My country
dear! Nor have I died
That thou mightst live!
My heart with anger
and with pity bleeds.
Ah, bitter thought! Thy children fought and fell;

But not for dying Italy, ah, no,
But in the service of her cruel foe!
Father, if this enrage thee not,
How changed art thou from what thou
wast on earth!
On Russia's plains, so bleak and desolate,
They died,
the sons of Italy;
Ah, well deserving of a better fate!
In cruel war
with men, with beasts,
The elements! In heaps they strewed the
ground;
Half-clad, emaciated, stained with blood,
A bed of ice for
their sick frames they found.
Then, when the parting hour drew near,

In fond remembrance of that mother dear,
They cried: "Oh had we
fallen by the foeman's hand,
And not the victims of the clouds and
storms,

And for _thy_ good, our native land!
Now, far from thee,
and in the bloom of youth,
Unknown to all, we yield our parting
breath,
And die for _her_, who caused our country's death!"
The northern desert and the whispering groves,
Sole witnesses of
their lament,
As thus they passed away!
And their neglected corpses,
as they lay
Upon that horrid sea of snow exposed,
Were by the
beasts consumed;
The memories of the brave and good,
And of the

coward and the vile,
Unto the same oblivion doomed!
Dear souls,
though infinite your wretchedness,
Rest, rest in peace! And yet what
peace is yours,
Who can no comfort ever know
While Time endures!

Rest in the depths of your unmeasured woe,
O ye, _her_ children
true,
Whose fate alone with hers may vie,
In endless, hopeless
misery!
But she rebukes you not,
Ah, no, but these alone,
Who forced you
with her to contend;
And still her bitter tears she blends with yours,

In wretchedness that knows no end.
Oh that some pity in the heart
were born,
For her, who hath all other glories won,
Of one, who
from this dark, profound abyss,
Her weak and weary feet could guide!

Thou glorious shade, oh! say,
Does no one love thy Italy?
Say, is
the flame that kindled thee extinct?
And will that myrtle never bloom
again,
That hath so long consoled us in our pain?
Must all our
garlands wither in the dust?
And shall we a redeemer never see,

Who may, in part, at least, resemble thee?
Are we forever lost?
Is there no limit to our shame?
I, while I live,
will never cease to cry:
"Degenerate race, think of thy ancestry!

Behold these ruins vast,
These pictures, statues, temples, poems
grand!
Think of the glories of thy native land!
If they thy soul
cannot inspire or warn,
Why