The Poems of Giacomo Leopardi | Page 8

genial current of thy soul
Was turned, by private envy, princely hate;

And then, by Love abandoned, life's last dream!
To thee, nought
real seemed but nothingness,
The world a dreary wilderness.
Too
late the honors came, so long deferred;
And yet, to die was unto thee
a gain.
Who knows the evils of our mortal state,
Demands but death,
no garland asks, of Fate.
Return, return to us,
Rise from thy silent, dreary tomb,
And feast
thine eyes on our distress,
O thou, whose life was crowned with
wretchedness!
Far worse than what appeared to thee so sad
And
infamous, have all our lives become.
Dear friend, who now would
pity thee,
When none save for himself hath thought or care?
Who
would not thy keen anguish folly call,
When all things great and rare
the name of folly bear?
When envy, no, but worse than envy, far,

Indifference pervades our rulers all?

Ah, who would now, when we
all think
Of song so little, and so much of gain,
A laurel for thy
brow prepare again?
Ah, since thy day, there has appeared but one,
Who has the fame of
Italy redeemed:
Too good for his vile age, he stands alone;
One of
the fierce Allobroges,
Whose manly virtue was derived
Direct from

heavenly powers,
Not from this dry, unfruitful earth of ours;

Whence he alone, unarmed,--
O matchless courage!--from the stage,

Did war upon the ruthless tyrants wage;
The only war, the only
weapon left,
Against the crimes and follies of the age.
First, and
alone, he took the field:
None followed him; all else were cowards
tame,
Lost to all sense of honor, or of shame.
Devoured by anger and by grief,
His spotless life he passed,
Till
from worse scenes released by death, at last.
O my Victorio, this was
not for thee
The fitting age, or land.
Great souls congenial times
and climes demand.
In mere repose we live content,
And vulgar
mediocrity;
The wise man sinks, the mob ascends,
Till all at last in
one dread level ends.
Go on, thou great discoverer!
Revive the dead,
since all the living sleep!
Dead tongues of ancient heroes arm anew;

Till this vile age a new life strive to win
By noble deeds, or perish
in its sin!
TO HIS SISTER PAOLINA,
ON HER APPROACHING MARRIAGE.
Since now thou art about to leave
Thy father's quiet house,
And all
the phantoms and illusions dear,
That heaven-born fancies round it
weave,
And to this lonely region lend their charm,
Unto the dust
and noise of life condemned,
By destiny, soon wilt thou learn to see

Our wretchedness and infamy,
My sister dear, who, in these
mournful times,
Alas, wilt more unhappy souls bestow
On our
unhappy Italy!
With strong examples strengthen thou their minds;

For cruel fate propitious gales
Hath e'er to virtue's course denied,

Nor in weak souls can purity reside.
Thy sons must either poor, or cowards be.
Prefer them poor. It is the
custom still.

Desert and fortune never yet were friends;
The strife
between them never ends.
Unhappy they, who in these evil days


Are born when all things totter to their fall!
But that we must to
heaven leave.
Be this, above all things, thy care,
Thy children still
to rear,
As those who court not Fortune's smiles,
Nor playthings are
of idle hope, or fear:
And so the future age will call them blessed;

For, in this slothful and deceitful world,
The living virtue ever we
despise,
The dead we load with eulogies.
Women, to you our country looks,
For the redemption of her fame:

Ah, not unto our injury and shame,
On the soft lustre of your eyes

A power far mightier was conferred
Than that of fire or sword!
The
wise and strong, in thought and act, are by
Your judgment led; nay all
who live
Beneath the sun, to you still bend the knee.
On you I call,
then; answer me!
Have _you_ youth's holy aspirations quenched?

And are our natures broken, crushed by _you_?
These sluggish minds,
these low desires,
These nerveless arms, these feeble knees.
Say,
say, are you to blame for these?
Love is the spur to noble deeds,
To him its worth who knows;
And
beauty still to lofty love inspires.
Love never in his spirit glows,

Whose heart exults not in his breast,
When angry winds in fight
descend,
And heaven gathers all its clouds,
And mountain crests the
lightnings rend.
O wives, O maidens, he
Who shrinks from danger,
turns his back upon
His country in her need, and only seeks
His
base desires and appetites to feed,
Excites your hatred and your scorn;

If ye for men, and not for milk-sops, feel
The glow of love o'er
your soft bosoms steal.
The mothers of unwarlike sons
O may ye ne'er be called!
Your
children still inure
For virtue's sake all trials to endure;

To scorn the
vices of this wretched age;
To cherish loyal thoughts, and high
desires;
And learn how much they owe unto their sires.
The sons of
Sparta thus became,
Amid the memories of heroes old,
Deserving
of the Grecian name;
While the young spouse the trusty sword

Upon the loved one's side would gird,
And, afterwards, with her

black locks,
The bloodless, naked corpse concealed,
When
homeward borne upon the faithful shield.
Virginia, thy soft cheek
In Beauty's finest mould was framed;
But
thy disdain Rome's haughty lord inflamed.
How lovely wast thou, in
thy youth's sweet prime,
When the rough dagger