The Poems of Giacomo Leopardi | Page 7

linger here? Arise! Begone!
This holy
ground must not be thus defiled,
And must no shelter give
Unto the
coward and the slave!
Far better were the silence of the grave!"
TO ANGELO MAI,
ON HIS DISCOVERY OF THE LOST BOOKS OF CICERO,

"DE REPUBLICA."
Italian bold, why wilt thou never cease
The fathers from their tombs
to summon forth?
Why bring them, with this dead age to converse,

That stifled is by enemies and by sloth?
And why dost thou, voice of

our ancestors,
That hast so long been mute,
Resound so loud and
frequent in our ears?
Why all these grand discoveries?
As in a flash
the fruitful pages come,
What hath this wretched age deserved,
That
dusty cloisters have for it reserved
These hidden treasures of the wise
and brave?
Illustrious man, with what strange power
Does Fate thy
ardent zeal befriend?
Or does Fate vainly with man's will contend?
Without the lofty counsel of the gods,
It surely could not be, that now,

When we were never sunk so low,
In desperate oblivion of the Past,

Each moment, comes a cry renewed,
From our great sires, to shake
our souls, at last!
Heaven still some pity shows for Italy;
Some god
hath still our happiness at heart:
Since this, or else no other, is the
hour,
Italian virtue to redeem,
And its old lustre once more to
impart,
These pleading voices from the grave we hear;
Forgotten
heroes rise from earth again,
To see, my country, if at this late day,

Thou still art pleased the coward's part to play.
And do ye cherish still,
Illustrious shades, some hope of us?
Have
we not perished utterly?
To you, perhaps, it is allowed, to read
The
book of destiny. _I_ am dismayed,
And have no refuge from my grief;

For dark to me the future is, and all
That I discern is such, as
makes hope seem
A fable and a dream. To your old homes
A
wretched crew succeed; to noble act or word,
They pay no heed; for
your eternal fame
They know no envy, feel no blush of shame.
A
filthy mob your monuments defile:
To ages yet unborn,
We have
become a by-word and a scorn.
Thou noble spirit, if no others care
For our great Fathers' fame, oh,
care thou still,

Thou, to whom Fate hath so benignant been,
That
those old days appear again,
When, roused from dire oblivion's tomb,

Came forth, with all the treasures of their lore,
Those ancient bards,
divine, with whom
Great Nature spake, but still behind her veil,

And with her mysteries graced
The holidays of Athens and of Rome.

O times, now buried in eternal sleep!
Our country's ruin was not

then complete;
We then a life of wretched sloth disdained;
Still
from our native soil were borne afar,
Some sparks of genius by the
passing air.
Thy holy ashes still were warm,
Whom hostile fortune ne'er
unmanned;
Unto whose anger and whose grief,
Hell was more
grateful than thy native land.
Ah, what, but hell, has Italy become?

And thy sweet cords
Still trembled at the touch of thy right hand,

Unhappy bard of love.
Alas, Italian song is still the child
Of sorrow
born.
And yet, less hard to bear,
Consuming grief than dull vacuity!

O blessed thou, whose life was one lament!
Disgust and
nothingness are still our doom,
And by our cradle sit, and on our
tomb.
But thy life, then, was with the stars and sea,
Liguria's hardy son,

When thou, beyond the columns and the shores,
Where oft, at set of
sun,
The waves are heard to hiss,
As he into their depths has
plunged,
Committed to the boundless deep,
Didst find again the
sun's declining ray,
The new-born day didst find,
When it from us
had passed away;
Defying Nature's every obstacle,
A land unknown
didst win, the glorious spoils
Of all thy perils, all thy toils.
And yet,
when known, the world seems smaller still;
And earth and ocean, and
the heavenly sphere
More vast unto the child, than to the sage appear.
Where now are all the charming dreams
Of the mysterious retreats

Of dwellers unto us unknown,
Or where, by day, the stars to rest have
gone,
Or of the couch remote of Eos bright,
Or of the sun's
mysterious sleep at night?
They, in an instant, vanished all;
A little
chart portrays this earthly ball.
Lo, all things are alike; discovery


But proves the way for dull vacuity.
Farewell to thee, O Fancy, dear,

If plain, unvarnished truth appear!
Thought more and more is still
estranged from thee;
Thy power so mighty once, will soon be gone,

And our poor, wounded hearts be left forlorn.

But thou for these sweet dreams wast born,
And the _old_ sun upon
thee shone,
Delightful singer of the arms, and loves,
That in an age
far happier than our own,
Men's lives with pleasing errors filled.

New hope of Italy! O towers, O caves,
O ladies, cavaliers,
O
gardens, palaces! Amenites,
At thought of which, the mind
Is lost in
thousand splendid reveries!
Ye lovely fables, and ye thoughts
grotesque,
Now banished! And what to us remains?
Now that the
bloom from all things is removed?
Alas, the sole, the certain thought,

That all except our wretchedness, is nought.
Torquato, O Torquato, heaven to us
The rich gift of thy genius gave,
to thee
Nought else but misery.
Ill-starred Torquato, whom thy song,

So sweet, could not console,
Nor melt the ice, to which
The