The Poems of Giacomo Leopardi | Page 9

of thy sire
Thy
snowy breast did smite,
And thou, a willing victim, didst descend

Into realms of night!
"May old age wither and consume my frame,

O father,"--thus she said;
"And may they now for me the tomb
prepare,
E'er I the impious bed
Of that foul tyrant share:
And if
my blood new life and liberty
May give to Rome, by thy hand let me
die!"
Ah, in those better days
When more propitious shone the sun than
now,
Thy tomb, dear child, was not left comfortless,
But honored
with the tears of all.
Behold, around thy lovely corpse, the sons
Of
Romulus with holy wrath inflamed;
Behold the tyrants locks with
dust besmeared;
In sluggish breasts once more
The sacred name of
Liberty revered;
Behold o'er all the subjugated earth,
The troops of
Latium march triumphant forth,
From torrid desert to the gloomy pole.

And thus eternal Rome,
That had so long in sloth oblivious lain,

A daughter's sacrifice revives again.
TO A VICTOR IN THE GAME OF PALLONE.
The face of glory and her pleasant voice,
O fortunate youth, now
recognize,
And how much nobler than effeminate sloth
Are
manhood's tested energies.
Take heed, O generous champion, take
heed,
If thou thy name by worthy thought or deed,
From Time's
all-sweeping current couldst redeem;
Take heed, and lift thy heart to
high desires!
The amphitheatre's applause, the public voice,

Now
summon thee to deeds illustrious;
Exulting in thy lusty youth.
In
thee, to-day, thy country dear
Beholds her heroes old again appear.

_His_ hand was ne'er with blood barbaric stained,
At Marathon,

Who on the plain of Elis could behold
The naked athletes, and the
wrestlers bold,
And feel no glow of emulous zeal within,
The laurel
wreath of victory to win.
And he, who in Alphëus stream did wash

The dusty manes and foaming flanks
Of his victorious mares, _he_
best could lead
The Grecian banners and the Grecian swords

Against the flying, panic-stricken ranks
Of Medes, who, dying, Asia's
shore
And great Euphrates will behold no more.
And will you call that vain, which seeks
The latent sparks of virtue to
evolve,
Or animate anew to high resolve,
The drooping fervor of
our weary souls?
What but a game have mortal works e'er been,

Since Phoebus first his weary wheels did urge?
And is not truth, no
less than falsehood, vain?
And yet, with pleasing phantoms, fleeting
shows,
Nature herself to our relief has come;
And custom, aiding
nature, still must strive
These strong illusions to revive;
Or else all
thirst for noble deeds is gone,
Is lost in sloth, and blind oblivion.
The time may come, perchance, when midst
The ruins of Italian
palaces,
Will herds of cattle graze,
And all the seven hills the
plough will feel;
Not many years will have elapsed, perchance,
E'er
all the towns of Italy
Will the abode of foxes be,
And dark groves
murmur 'mid the lofty walls;
Unless the Fates from our perverted
minds
Remove this sad oblivion of the Past;
And heaven by
grateful memories appeased,
Relenting, in the hour of our despair,

The abject nations, ripe for slaughter, spare.
But thou, O worthy youth, wouldst grieve,
Thy wretched country to
survive.
Thou once through her mightst have acquired renown,

When on her brow she wore the glittering crown,
Now lost! Our fault,
and Fate's! That time is o'er;
Ah, such a mother who could honor,
more?
But for thyself, O lift thy thoughts on high!
What is our life?
A thing to be despised:
Least wretched, when with perils so beset,
It
must, perforce, its wretched self forget,
Nor heed the flight of

slow-paced, worthless hours;
Or, when, to Lethe's dismal shore
impelled,
It hath once more the light of day beheld.
THE YOUNGER BRUTUS.
When in the Thracian dust uprooted lay,
In ruin vast, the strength of
Italy,
And Fate had doomed Hesperia's valleys green,
And Tiber's
shores,
The trampling of barbarian steeds to feel,
And from the
leafless groves,
On which the Northern Bear looks down,
Had
called the Gothic hordes,
That Rome's proud walls might fall before
their swords;
Exhausted, wet with brothers' blood,
Alone sat Brutus,
in the dismal night;
Resolved on death, the gods implacable
Of
heaven and hell he chides,
And smites the listless, drowsy air
With
his fierce cries of anger and despair.
"O foolish virtue, empty mists,
The realms of shadows, are thy
schools,
And at thy heels repentance follows fast.
To you, ye
marble gods
(If ye in Phlegethon reside, or dwell
Above the clouds),
a mockery and scorn
Is the unhappy race,
Of whom you temples
ask,
And fraudulent the law that you impose.
Say, then, does
earthly piety provoke
The anger of the gods?
O Jove, dost thou
protect the impious?
And when the storm-cloud rushes through the
air,
And thou thy thunderbolts dost aim,
Against the _just_ dost
thou impel the sacred flame?
Unconquered Fate and stern necessity

Oppress the feeble slaves of Death:
Unable to avert their injuries,

The common herd endure them patiently.
But is the ill less hard to
bear,
Because it has no remedy?
Does he who knows no hope no
sorrow feel?
The hero wages war with thee,

Eternal deadly war,
ungracious Fate,
And knows not how to yield; and thy right hand,

Imperious, proudly shaking off,
E'en when it weighs upon him most,

Though conquered, is triumphant still,
When his sharp sword
inflicts the fatal blow;
And seeks with haughty smile the shades
below.

"Who storms the gates of Tartarus,
Offends the gods.
Such valor
does not