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The Poems of Giacomo Leopardi
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THE POEMS OF GIACOMO LEOPARDI

TRANSLATED BY FREDERICK TOWNSEND

NEW YORK AND LONDON G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS The Knickerbocker Press 1887

COPYRIGHT BY R. T. TOWNSEND 1887

Press of G. P. Putnam's Sons New York

TO M. N. M. SISTER OF THE TRANSLATOR THESE POEMS ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE EDITOR



PREFACE.

Giacomo Leopardi is a great name in Italy among philosophers and poets, but is quite unknown in this country, and Mr. Townsend has the honor of introducing him, in the most captivating way, to his countrymen. In Germany and France he has excited attention. Translations have been made of his works; essays have been written on his ideas. But in England his name is all but unheard of. Six or seven years ago Mr. Charles Edwards published a translation of the essays and dialogues, but no version of the poems has appeared, so far as I know. Leopardi was substantially a poet,—that is to say, he had imagination, sentiment, passion, an intense love of beauty, a powerful impulse towards things ideal. The sad tone of his speculations about the universe and human destiny gave an impression of mournfulness to his lines, but this rather deepened the pathos of his work. In the same breath he sang of love and the grave, and the love was the more eager for its brevity. He had the poetic temperament—sensitive, ardent, aspiring. He possessed the poetic aspect—the broad white brow, the large blue eyes. Some compared him to Byron, but the resemblance was external merely. In ideas, purpose, feeling, he was entirely unlike the Englishman; in the energy and fire of his style only did he somewhat resemble him. Worshippers have even ventured to class him with Dante, a comparison which shows, at least, in what estimation the poet could be held at home, and how largely the patriotic sentiment entered into the conception of poetical compositions, how necessary it was that the singer should be a bard. His verses ranged over a large field. They were philosophic, patriotic, amorous. There are odes, lyrics, satires, songs; many very beautiful and feeling; all noble and earnest. His three poems, "All' Italia," "Sopra il Monumento di Dante," "A Angelo Mai," gave him a national reputation. They touch the chords to which he always responded—patriotism, poetry, learning, a national idealism bearing aloft an enormous weight of erudition and thought.

Leopardi was born at Recanati, a small town about fifteen miles from Ancona, in 1798. He was of noble parentage, though not rich. His early disposition was joyous, but with the feverish joy of a highly-strung, nervous organization. He was a great student from boyhood; and severe application undermined a system that was never robust, and that soon became hopelessly diseased. Illness, accompanied with sharp pain, clipped the wings of his ambition, obliged him to forego preferment, and deepened the hopelessness that hung over his expectations. His hunger for love could not be satisfied, for his physical infirmity rendered a union undesirable, even if possible, while a craving ideality soon transcended any visible object of affection. He had warm friends of his own sex, one of whom, Antonio Ranieri, stayed by him in all vicissitudes, took him to Naples, and closed his eyes, June 14, 1837.

To this acute sensibility of frame must be added the torture of the heart arising from a difference with his father, who, as a Catholic, was disturbed by the skeptical tendencies of his son, and the perpetual irritation of a conflict with the large majority of even philosophical minds. An early death might have been anticipated. No amount of hopefulness, of zest for life, of thirst for opportunity, of genius for intellectual productiveness will counteract such predisposition to decay. The death of the body, however, has but ensured a speedier immortality of the soul; for many a thinker has since been busy in gathering up the fragments of his mind and keeping his memory fresh. His immense learning has been forgotten. His archaeological knowledge, which fascinated Niebuhr, is of small account to-day. But his speculative and poetical genius is a permanent illumination.

Mr. Townsend, the translator, well known in New York, where he was born, lived ten years in Italy, and seven in Rome. He was a studious, thoughtful man; quiet, secluded, scholarly; an eminent student of Italian literature; a real sympathizer with Italian progress. By the cast of his mind and the course of his inward experience he was drawn towards Leopardi. His version adheres as closely to the original as is compatible with elegance and the preservation of metrical grace. He has not rendered into English all Leopardi's poems, but he has presented the best of them, enough to give an idea of his author's style of feeling and expression. What he has done, has been performed faithfully. It is worth remarking that he was attracted by the intense longing of the poet for love and appreciation, and by keen sympathy with his unhappy condition. It is needless to say that he did not share the pessimism that imparts a melancholy hue to the philosopher's own doctrine, and that might have been modified if not dispelled by a different experience. The translation was finished at Siena, the summer of the earthquake, and was the last work Mr. Townsend ever did, the commotion outside not interrupting him, or causing him to suspend his application.

O. B. Frothingham.



CONTENTS.

Dedication xiii To Italy 1 On Dante's Monument 7 To Angelo Mai 15 To His Sister Paolina 23 To a Victor in the Game of Pallone 27 The Younger Brutus 30 To the Spring 35 Hymn to the Patriarchs 40 The Last Song of Sappho 45 First Love 48 The Lonely Sparrow 53 The Infinite 56 The Evening of the Holiday 57 To The Moon 59 The Dream 60 The Lonely Life 64 Consalvo 68 To the Beloved 74 To Count Carlo Pepoli 77 The Resurrection 84 To Sylvia 92 Recollections 95 Night-Song of a Wandering Shepherd in Asia 102 Calm after Storm 108 The Village Saturday-Night 110 The Ruling Thought 113 Love and Death 119 To Himself 124 Aspasia 125 On an Old Sepulchral Bas-Relief 130 On the Portrait of a Beautiful Woman 135 Palinodia 138 The Setting of the Moon 149 The Ginestra 152 Imitation 165 Scherzo 166 Fragments 167



Dedication.

[From the first Florentine Edition of the Poems, in the year 1831.]

To my Friends in Tuscany:

My dear Friends, I dedicate this book to you, in which, as is oft the case with Poets, I have sought to illustrate my sorrow, and with which I now—I cannot say it without tears—take leave of Literature and of my studies. I hoped these dear studies would have been the consolation of my old age, and thought, after having lost all the other joys and blessings of childhood and of youth, I had secured one, of which no power, no unhappiness could rob me. But I was scarcely twenty years old, when that weakness of nerves and of stomach, which has destroyed my life, and yet gives me no hope of death, robbed that only blessing of more than half its value, and, in my twenty-eighth year, has utterly deprived me of it, and, as I must think, forever. I have not been able to read these pages, and have been compelled to entrust their revision to other eyes and other hands. I will utter no more complaints, my dear friends; the consciousness of the depth of my affliction admits not of complaints and lamentations. I have lost all; I am a withered branch, that feels and suffers still. You only have I won! Your society, which must compensate me for all my studies, joys, and hopes, would almost outweigh my sorrows, did not my very sickness prevent me from enjoying it as I could wish, and did I not know that Fate will soon deprive me of this benefit, also, and will compel me to spend the remainder of my days, far from all the delights of civilized life, in a spot, far better suited to the dead than to the living. Your love, meanwhile, will ever follow me, and will yet cling to me, perhaps, when this body, which, indeed, no longer lives, shall be turned to ashes. Farewell! Your

Leopardi.



TO ITALY. (1818.)

My country, I the walls, the arches see, The columns, statues, and the towers Deserted, of our ancestors; But, ah, the glory I do not behold, The laurel and the sword, that graced Our sires of old. Now, all unarmed, a naked brow, A naked breast dost thou display. Ah, me, how many wounds, what stains of blood! Oh, what a sight art thou, Most beautiful of women! I To heaven cry aloud, and to the world: "Who hath reduced her to this pass? Say, say!" And worst of all, alas, See, both her arms in chains are bound! With hair dishevelled, and without a veil She sits, disconsolate, upon the ground, And hides her face between her knees, As she bewails her miseries. Oh, weep, my Italy, for thou hast cause; Thou, who wast born the nations to subdue, As victor, and as victim, too! Oh, if thy eyes two living fountains were, The volume of their tears could ne'er express Thy utter helplessness, thy shame; Thou, who wast once the haughty dame, And, now, the wretched slave. Who speaks, or writes of thee, That must not bitterly exclaim: "She once was great, but, oh, behold her now"? Why hast thou fallen thus, oh, why? Where is the ancient force? Where are the arms, the valor, constancy? Who hath deprived thee of thy sword? What treachery, what skill, what labor vast, Or what o'erwhelming horde Whose fierce, invading tide, thou could'st not stem, Hath robbed thee of thy robe and diadem? From such a height how couldst thou fall so low? Will none defend thee? No? No son of thine? For arms, for arms, I call; Alone I'll fight for thee, alone will fall. And from my blood, a votive offering, May flames of fire in every bosom spring! Where are thy sons? The sound of arms I hear, Of chariots, of voices, and of drums; From foreign lands it comes, For which thy children fight. Oh, hearken, hearken, Italy! I see,— Or is it but a dream?— A wavering of horse and foot, And smoke, and dust, and flashing swords, That like the lightning gleam. Art thou not comforted? Dost turn away Thy eyes, in horror, from the doubtful fray? Ye gods, ye gods. Oh, can it be? The youth of Italy Their hireling swords for other lands have bared! Oh, wretched he in war who falls, Not for his native shores, His loving wife and children dear, But, fighting for another's gain, And by another's foe is slain! Nor can he say, as his last breath he draws, "My mother-land, beloved, ah see, The life thou gav'st, I render back to thee!" Oh fortunate and dear and blessed, The ancient days, when rushed to death the brave, In crowds, their 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 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 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 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 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 Alpheus 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 suit, forsooth, Their soft, eternal bosoms; no? Or are our toils and miseries, And all the anguish of our hearts, A pleasant sport, their leisure to beguile? Yet no such life of crime and wretchedness, But pure and free as her own woods and fields, Nature to us prescribed; a queen And goddess once. Since impious custom, now, Her happy realm hath scattered to the winds, And other laws on this poor life imposed, Will Nature of fool-hardiness accuse The manly souls, who such a life refuse?

"Of crime, and their own sufferings ignorant, Serene old age the beasts conducts Unto the death they ne'er foresee. But if, by misery impelled, they sought To dash their heads against the rugged tree, Or, plunging headlong from the lofty rock, Their limbs to scatter to the winds. No law mysterious, misconception dark, Would the sad wish refuse to grant. Of all that breathe the breath of life, You, only, children of Prometheus, feel That life a burden hard to bear; Yet, would you seek the silent shores of death, If sluggish fate the boon delay, To you, alone, stern Jove forbids the way.

"And thou, white moon, art rising from the sea, That with our blood is stained; The troubled night dost thou survey, And field, so fatal unto Italy. On brothers' breasts the conqueror treads; The hills with fear are thrilled; From her proud heights Rome totters to her fall. And smilest thou upon the dismal scene? Lavinia's children from their birth, And all their prosperous years, And well-earned laurels, hast thou seen; And thou wilt smile, with ray unchanged, Upon the Alps, when, bowed with grief and shame, The haughty city, desolate and lone, Beneath the tread of Gothic hordes shall groan.

"Behold, amid the naked rocks, Or on the verdant bough, the beast and bird, Whose breasts are ne'er by thought or memory stirred, Of the vast ruin take no heed, Or of the altered fortunes of the world; And when the humble herdsman's cot Is tinted with the earliest rays of dawn, The one will wake the valleys with his song, The other, o'er the cliffs, the frightened throng Of smaller beasts before him drive. O foolish race! Most wretched we, of all! Nor are these blood-stained fields, These caverns, that our groans have heard, Regardful of our misery; Nor shines one star less brightly in the sky. Not the deaf kings of heaven or hell, Or the unworthy earth, Or night, do I in death invoke, Or thee, last gleam the dying hour that cheers, The voice of coming ages. I no tomb Desire, to be with sobs disturbed, or with The words and gifts of wretched fools adorned. The times grow worse and worse; And who, unto a vile posterity, The honor of great souls would trust, Or fit atonement for their wrongs? Then let the birds of prey around me wheel: And let my wretched corpse The lightning blast, the wild beast tear; And let my name and memory melt in air!"



TO THE SPRING.

OR OF THE FABLES OF THE ANCIENTS.

Now that the sun the faded charms Of heaven again restores, And gentle zephyr the sick air revives, And the dark shadows of the clouds Are put to flight, And birds their naked breasts confide Unto the wind, and the soft light, With new desire of love, and with new hope, The conscious beasts, in the deep woods, Amid the melting frosts, inspires; May not to you, poor human souls, Weary, and overborne with grief, The happy age return, which misery, And truth's dark torch, before its time, consumed? Have not the golden rays Of Phoebus vanished from your gaze Forever? Say, O gentle Spring, Canst thou this icy heart inspire, and melt, That in the bloom of youth, the frost of age hath felt?

O holy Nature, art thou still alive? Alive? And does the unaccustomed ear Of thy maternal voice the accents hear? Of white nymphs once, the streams were the abode. And in the clear founts mirrored were their forms. Mysterious dances of immortal feet The mountain tops and lofty forests shook,— To-day the lonely mansions of the winds;— And when the shepherd-boy the noontide shade Would seek, or bring his thirsty lambs Unto the flowery margin of the stream, Along the banks the clear song would he hear, And pipe of rustic Fauns; Would see the waters move, And stand amazed, when, hidden from the view, The quiver-bearing goddess would descend Into the genial waves, And from her snow-white arms efface The dust and blood of the exciting chase.

The flowers, the herbs once lived, The groves with life were filled: Soft airs, and clouds, and every shining light Were with the human race in sympathy, When thee, fair star of Venus, o'er The hills and dales, The traveller, in the lonely night, Pursuing with his earnest gaze, The sweet companion of his path, The loving friend of mortals deemed: When he, who, fleeing from the impious strife Of cities filled with mutiny and shame, In depths of woods remote, The rough trees clasping to his breast, The vital flame seemed in their veins to feel, The breathing leaves of Daphne, or of Phyllis sad; And seemed the sisters' tears to see, still shed For him who, smitten by the lightning's blast, Into the swift Eridanus was cast.

Nor were ye deaf, ye rigid rocks, To human sorrow's plaintive tones, While in your dark recesses Echo dwelt, No idle plaything of the winds, But spirit sad of hapless nymph, Whom unrequited love, and cruel fate, Of her soft limbs deprived. She o'er the grots, The naked rocks, and mansions desolate, Unto the depths of all-embracing air, Our sorrows, not to her unknown, Our broken, loud laments conveyed. And thou, if fame belie thee not, Didst sound the depths of human woe, Sweet bird, that comest to the leafy grove, The new-born Spring to greet, And when the fields are hushed in sleep, To chant into the dark and silent air, The ancient wrongs, and cruel treachery, That stirred the pity of the gods, to see. But, no, thy race is not akin to ours; No sorrow framed thy melodies; Thy voice of crime unconscious, pleases less, Along the dusky valley heard. Ah, since the mansions of Olympus all Are desolate, and without guide, the bolt, That, wandering o'er the cloud-capped mountain-tops, In horror cold dissolves alike The guilty and the innocent; Since this, our earthly home, A stranger to her children has become, And brings them up, to misery; Lend thou an ear, dear Nature, to the woes And wretched fate of mortals, and revive The ancient spark within my breast; If thou, indeed, dost live, if aught there is, In heaven, or on the sun-lit earth, Or in the bosom of the sea, That pities? No; but sees our misery.



HYMN TO THE PATRIARCHS.

OR OF THE BEGINNINGS OF THE HUMAN RACE.

Illustrious fathers of the human race, Of you, the song of your afflicted sons Will chant the praise; of you, more dear, by far, Unto the Great Disposer of the stars, Who were not born to wretchedness, like ours. Immedicable woes, a life of tears, The silent tomb, eternal night, to find More sweet, by far, than the ethereal light, These things were not by heaven's gracious law Imposed on you. If ancient legends speak Of sins of yours, that brought calamity Upon the human race, and fell disease, Alas, the sins more terrible, by far, Committed by your children, and their souls More restless, and with mad ambition fixed, Against them roused the wrath of angry gods, The hand of all-sustaining Nature armed, By them so long neglected and despised. Then life became a burden and a curse, And every new-born babe a thing abhorred, And hell and chaos reigned upon the earth.

Thou first the day, and thou the shining lights Of the revolving stars didst see, the fields, And their new flocks and herds, O leader old And father of the human family! The wandering air that o'er the meadows played, When smote the rocks, and the deserted vales, The torrent, rustling headlong from the Alps, With sound, till then, unheard; and o'er the sites Of future nations, noisy cities, yet unknown To fame, a peace profound, mysterious reigned; And o'er the unploughed hills, in silence, rose The ray of Phoebus, and the golden moon. O world, how happy in thy loneliness, Of crimes and of disasters ignorant! Oh, how much wretchedness Fate had in store For thy poor race, unhappy father, what A series vast of terrible events! Behold, the fields, scarce tilled, with blood are stained, A brother's blood, in sudden frenzy shed; And now, alas, first hears the gentle air The whirring of the fearful wings of Death. The trembling fratricide, a fugitive, The lonely shades avoids; in every blast That sweeps the groves, a voice of wrath he hears. He the first city builds, abode and realm Of wasting cares; repentance desperate, Heart-sick, and groaning, thus unites and binds Together blind and sinful souls, and first A refuge offers unto mutual guilt. The wicked hand now scorns the crooked plough; The sweat of honest labor is despised; Now sloth possession of the threshold takes; The sluggish frames their native vigor lose; The minds in hopeless indolence are sunk; And slavery, the crowning curse of all, Degrades and crushes poor humanity.

And thou from heaven's wrath, and ocean's waves, That bellowed round the cloud-capped mountain-tops, The sinful brood didst save; thou, unto whom, From the dark air and wave-encumbered hills, The white dove brought the sign of hope renewed, And sinking in the west, the shipwrecked sun, His bright rays darting through the angry clouds, The dark sky painted with the lovely bow. The race restored, to earth returned, begins anew The same career of wickedness and lust, With their attendant ills. Audacious man Defies the threats of the avenging sea, And to new shores and to new stars repeats The same sad tale of infamy and woe.

And now of thee I think, the just and brave, The Father of the faithful, and the sons Thy honored name that bore. Of thee I speak, Whom, sitting, thoughtful, in the noontide shade, Before thy humble cottage, near the banks, That gave thy flocks both rest and nourishment, The minds ethereal of celestial guests With blessings greeted; and of thee, O son Of wise Rebecca, how at eventide, In Aran's valley sweet, and by the well, Where happy swains in friendly converse met, Thou didst with Laban's daughter fall in love; Love, that to exile long, and suffering, And to the odious yoke of servitude, Thy patient soul a willing martyr led.

Oh, surely once,—for not with idle tales And shadows, the Aonian song, and voice Of Fame, the eager list'ners feed,—once was This wretched earth more friendly to our race, Was more beloved and dear, and golden flew The days, that now so laden are with care. Not that the milk, in waves of purest white, Gushed from the rocks, and flowed along the vales; Or that the tigers mingled with the sheep, To the same fold were led; or shepherd-boys With playful wolves would frolic at the spring; But of its own lot ignorant, and all The sufferings that were in store, devoid Of care it lived: a soft, illusive veil Of error hid the stern realities, The cruel laws of heaven and of fate. Life glided on, with cheerful hope content; And tranquil, sought the haven of its rest.

So lives, in California's forests vast, A happy race, whose life-blood is not drained By pallid care, whose limbs are not by fierce Disease consumed: the woods their food, their homes The hollow rock, the streamlet of the vale Its waters furnishes, and, unforeseen, Dark death upon them steals. Ah, how unarmed, Wise Nature's happy votaries, are ye, Against our impious audacity! Our fierce, indomitable love of gain Your shores, your caves, your quiet woods invades; Your minds corrupts, your bodies enervates; And happiness, a naked fugitive, Before it drives, to earth's remotest bounds.



THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

Thou tranquil night, and thou, O gentle ray Of the declining moon; and thou, that o'er The rock appearest, 'mid the silent grove, The messenger of day; how dear ye were, And how delightful to these eyes, while yet Unknown the furies, and grim Fate! But now, No gentle sight can soothe this wounded soul. Then, only, can forgotten joy revive, When through the air, and o'er the trembling fields The raging south wind whirls its clouds of dust; And when the car, the pondrous car of Jove, Omnipotent, high-thundering o'er our heads, A pathway cleaves athwart the dusky sky. Then would I love with storm-charged clouds to fly Along the cliffs, along the valleys deep, The headlong flight of frightened flocks to watch, Or hear, upon some swollen river's shore The angry billows' loud, triumphant roar.

How beautiful thou art, O heaven divine, And thou, O dewy earth! Alas no part Of all this beauty infinite, the gods And cruel fate to wretched Sappho gave! To thy proud realms, O Nature, I, a poor, Unwelcome guest, rejected lover, come; To all thy varied forms of loveliness, My heart and eyes, a suppliant, lift in vain. The sun-lit shore hath smiles no more for me, Nor radiant morning light at heaven's gate; The birds no longer greet me with their songs, Nor whispering trees with gracious messages; And where, beneath the bending willows' shade, The limpid stream its bosom pure displays, As I, with trembling and uncertain foot, Oppressed with grief, upon its margin pause, The dimpled waves recoil, as in disdain, And urge their flight along the flowery plain.

What fearful crime, what hideous excess Have so defiled me, e'en before my birth, That heaven and fortune frown upon me thus? Wherein have I offended, as a child, When we of evil deeds are ignorant, That thus disfigured, of the bloom of youth Bereft, my little thread of life has from The spindle of the unrelenting Fate Been drawn? Alas, incautious are thy words! Mysterious counsels all events control, And all, except our grief, is mystery. Deserted children, we were born to weep; But why, is known to those above, alone. O vain the cares, the hopes of earlier years! To idle shows Jove gives eternal sway O'er human hearts. Unless in shining robes arrayed, All manly deeds in arms, or art, or song, Appeal in vain unto the vulgar throng.

I die! This wretched veil to earth I cast, And for my naked soul a refuge seek Below, and for the cruel faults atone Of gods, the blind dispensers of events. And thou, to whom I have been bound so long, By hopeless love, and lasting faith, and by The frenzy vain of unappeased desire, Live, live, and if thou canst, be happy here! My cup o'erflows with bitterness, and Jove Has from his vase no drop of sweetness shed, For all my childhood's hopes and dreams have fled. The happiest day the soonest fades away; And then succeed disease, old age, the shade Of icy death. Behold, alas! Of all My longed-for laurels, my illusions dear, The end,—the gulf of hell! My spirit proud Must to the realm of Proserpine descend, The Stygian shore, the night that knows no end.



FIRST LOVE.

Ah, well can I the day recall, when first The conflict fierce of love I felt, and said: If this be love, how hard it is to bear!

With eyes still fixed intent upon the ground, I saw but her, whose artless innocence, Triumphant took possession of this heart.

Ah, Love, how badly hast thou governed me! Why should affection so sincere and pure, Bring with it such desire, such suffering?

Why not serene, and full, and free from guile But sorrow-laden, and lamenting sore, Should joy so great into my heart descend?

O tell me, tender heart, that sufferest so, Why with that thought such anguish should be blent, Compared with which, all other thoughts were naught?

That thought, that ever present in the day, That in the night more vivid still appeared, When all things round in sweet sleep seemed to rest:

Thou, restless, both with joy and misery Didst with thy constant throbbings weary so My breast, as panting in my bed I lay.

And when worn out with grief and weariness, In sleep my eyes I closed, ah, no relief It gave, so broken and so feverish!

How brightly from the depths of darkness, then, The lovely image rose, and my closed eyes, Beneath their lids, their gaze upon it fed!

O what delicious impulses, diffused, My weary frame with sweet emotion filled! What myriad thoughts, unstable and confused,

Were floating in my mind! As through the leaves Of some old grove, the west wind, wandering, A long, mysterious murmur leaves behind.

And as I, silent, to their influence yield, What saidst thou, heart, when she departed, who Had caused thee all thy throbs, and suffering?

No sooner had I felt within, the heat Of love's first flame, than with it flew away The gentle breeze, that fanned it into life.

Sleepless I lay, until the dawn of day; The steeds, that were to leave me desolate, Their hoofs were beating at my father's gate.

And I, in mute suspense, poor timid fool, With eye that vainly would the darkness pierce, And eager ear intent, lay, listening,

That voice to hear, if, for the last time, I Might catch the accents from those lovely lips; The voice alone; all else forever lost!

How many vulgar tones my doubtful ear Would smite, with deep disgust inspiring me, With doubt tormented, holding hard my breath!

And when, at last, that voice into my heart Descended, passing sweet, and when the sound Of horses and of wheels had died away;

In utter desolation, then, my head I in my pillow buried, closed my eyes, And pressed my hand against my heart, and sighed.

Then, listlessly, my trembling knees across The silent chamber dragging, I exclaimed, "Nothing on earth can interest me more!"

The bitter recollection cherishing Within my breast, to every voice my heart, To every face, insensible remained.

Long I remained in hopeless sorrow drowned; As when the heavens far and wide their showers Incessant pour upon the fields around.

Nor had I, Love, thy cruel power known, A boy of eighteen summers flown, until That day, when I thy bitter lesson learned;

When I each pleasure held in scorn, nor cared The shining stars to see, or meadows green, Or felt the charm of holy morning light;

The love of glory, too, no longer found An echo in my irresponsive breast, That, once, the love of beauty with it shared.

My favorite studies I neglected quite; And those things vain appeared, compared with which, I used to think all other pleasures vain.

Ah! how could I have changed so utterly? How could one passion all the rest destroy? Indeed, what helpless mortals are we all!

My heart my only comfort was, and with That heart, in conference perpetual, A constant watch upon my grief to keep.

My eye still sought the ground, or in itself Absorbed, shrank from encountering the glance Of lovely or unlovely countenance;

The stainless image fearing to disturb, So faithfully reflected in my breast; As winds disturb the mirror of the lake.

And that regret, that I could not enjoy Such happiness, which weighs upon the mind, And turns to poison pleasure that has passed,

Did still its thorn within my bosom lodge, As I the past recalled; but shame, indeed, Left not its cruel sting within this heart.

To heaven, to you, ye gentle souls, I swear, No base desire intruded on my thought; But with a pure and sacred flame I burned.

That flame still lives, and that affection pure; Still in my thought that lovely image breathes, From which, save heavenly, I no other joy,

Have ever known; my only comfort, now!



THE LONELY SPARROW.

Thou from the top of yonder antique tower, O lonely sparrow, wandering, hast gone, Thy song repeating till the day is done, And through this valley strays the harmony. How Spring rejoices in the fields around, And fills the air with light, So that the heart is melted at the sight! Hark to the bleating flocks, the lowing herds! In sweet content, the other birds Through the free sky in emulous circles wheel, In pure enjoyment of their happy time: Thou, pensive, gazest on the scene apart, Nor wilt thou join them in the merry round; Shy playmate, thou for mirth hast little heart; And with thy plaintive music, dost consume Both of the year, and of thy life, the bloom.

Alas, how much my ways Resemble thine! The laughter and the sport, That fill with glee our youthful days, And thee, O love, who art youth's brother still, Too oft the bitter sigh of later years, I care not for; I know not why, But from them ever distant fly: Here in my native place, As if of alien race, My spring of life I like a hermit pass. This day, that to the evening now gives way, Is in our town an ancient holiday. Hark, through the air, that voice of festal bell, While rustic guns in frequent thunders sound, Reverberated from the hills around. In festal robes arrayed, The neighboring youth, Their houses leaving, o'er the roads are spread; They pleasant looks exchange, and in their hearts Rejoice. I, lonely, in this distant spot, Along the country wandering, Postpone all pleasure and delight To some more genial time: meanwhile, As through the sunny air around I gaze, My brow is smitten by his rays, As after such a day serene, Dropping behind yon distant hills, He vanishes, and seems to say, That thus all happy youth must pass away.

Thou, lonely little bird, when thou Hast reached the evening of the days Thy stars assign to thee, Wilt surely not regret thy ways; For all thy wishes are Obedient to Nature's law. But ah! If I, in spite of all my prayers, Am doomed the hateful threshold of old age To cross, when these dull eyes will give No response to another's heart, The world to them a void will be, Each day become more full of misery, How then, will this, my wish appear In those dark hours, that dungeon drear? My blighted youth, my sore distress, Alas, will then seem happiness!



THE INFINITE.

This lonely hill to me was ever dear, This hedge, which shuts from view so large a part Of the remote horizon. As I sit And gaze, absorbed, I in my thought conceive The boundless spaces that beyond it range, The silence supernatural, and rest Profound; and for a moment I am calm. And as I listen to the wind, that through These trees is murmuring, its plaintive voice I with that infinite compare; And things eternal I recall, and all The seasons dead, and this, that round me lives, And utters its complaint. Thus wandering My thought in this immensity is drowned; And sweet to me is shipwreck on this sea.



THE EVENING OF THE HOLIDAY.

The night is mild and clear, and without wind, And o'er the roofs, and o'er the gardens round The moon shines soft, and from afar reveals Each mountain-peak serene. O lady, mine, Hushed now is every path, and few and dim The lamps that glimmer through the balconies. Thou sleepest! in thy quiet rooms, how light And easy is thy sleep! No care thy heart Consumes; and little dost thou know or think, How deep a wound thou in my heart hast made. Thou sleepest; I to yonder heaven turn, That seems to greet me with a loving smile, And to that Nature old, omnipotent, That doomed me still to suffer. "I to thee All hope deny," she said, "e'en hope; nor may Those eyes of thine e'er shine, save through their tears."

This was a holiday; its pleasures o'er, Thou seek'st repose; and happy in thy dreams Recallest those whom thou hast pleased to-day, And those who have pleased thee: not I, indeed,— I hoped it not,—unto thy thoughts occur. Meanwhile, I ask, how much of life remains To me; and on the earth I cast myself, And cry, and groan. How wretched are my days, And still so young! Hark, on the road I hear, Not far away, the solitary song Of workman, who returns at this late hour, In merry mood, unto his humble home; And in my heart a cruel pang I feel, At thought, how all things earthly pass away, And leave no trace behind. This festal day Hath fled; a working-day now follows it, And all, alike, are swept away by Time. Where is the glory of the antique nations now? Where now the fame of our great ancestors? The empire vast of Rome, the clash of arms? Now all is peace and silence, all the world At rest; their very names are heard no more. E'en from my earliest years, when we Expect so eagerly a holiday, The moment it was past, I sought my couch, Wakeful and sad; and at the midnight hour, When I the song heard of some passer-by, That slowly in the distance died away, The same deep anguish felt I in my heart.



TO THE MOON.

O lovely moon, how well do I recall The time,—'tis just a year—when up this hill I came, in my distress, to gaze at thee: And thou suspended wast o'er yonder grove, As now thou art, which thou with light dost fill. But stained with mist, and tremulous, appeared Thy countenance to me, because my eyes Were filled with tears, that could not be suppressed; For, oh, my life was wretched, wearisome, And is so still, unchanged, beloved moon! And yet this recollection pleases me, This computation of my sorrow's age. How pleasant is it, in the days of youth, When hope a long career before it hath, And memories are few, upon the past To dwell, though sad, and though the sadness last!



THE DREAM.

It was the morning; through the shutters closed, Along the balcony, the earliest rays Of sunlight my dark room were entering; When, at the time that sleep upon our eyes Its softest and most grateful shadows casts, There stood beside me, looking in my face, The image dear of her, who taught me first To love, then left me to lament her loss. To me she seemed not dead, but sad, with such A countenance as the unhappy wear. Her right hand near my head she sighing placed; "Dost thou still live," she said to me, "and dost Thou still remember what we were and are?" And I replied: "Whence comest thou, and how, Beloved and beautiful? Oh how, how I Have grieved, still grieve for thee! Nor did I think Thou e'er couldst know it more; and oh, that thought My sorrow rendered more disconsolate! But art thou now again to leave me? I fear so. Say, what hath befallen thee? Art thou the same? What preys upon thee thus?" "Oblivion weighs upon thy thoughts, and sleep Envelops them," she answered; "I am dead, And many months have passed, since last we met." What grief oppressed me, as these words I heard! And she continued: "In the flower of youth Cut off, when life is sweetest, and before The heart that lesson sad and sure hath learnt, The utter vanity of human hope! The sick man may e'en covet, as a boon, That which withdraws him from all suffering; But to the young, Death comes, disconsolate; And hard the fate of hope, that in the grave Is quenched! And yet, how vain that knowledge is, That Nature from the inexperienced hides! And a blind sorrow is to be preferred To wisdom premature!"—"Hush, hush!" I cried, "Unhappy one, and dear! My heart is crushed With these thy words! And art thou dead, indeed, O my beloved? and am I still alive? And was it, then, in heaven decreed, that this, Thy tender body the last damps of death Should feel, and my poor, wretched frame remain Unharmed? Oh, often, often as I think That thou no longer livest, and that I Shall never see thee on the earth again, Incredible it seems! Alas, alas! What is this thing, that they call death? Oh, would That I, this day, the mystery could solve, And my defenceless head withdraw from Fate's Relentless hate! I still am young, and still Feel all the blight and misery of age, Which I so dread; and distant far it seems; But, ah, how little different from age, The flower of my years!"—"We both were born," She said, "to weep; unhappy were our lives, And heaven took pleasure in our sufferings." "Oh if my eyes with tears," I added, "then, My face with pallor veiled thou seest, for loss Of thee, and anguish weighing on my heart; Tell me, was any spark of pity or of love For the poor lover kindled in thy heart, While thou didst live? I, then, between my hope And my despair, passed weary nights and days; And now, my mind is with vain doubts oppressed. Oh if but once compassion smote thee for My darkened life, conceal it not from me, I pray thee; let the memory console me, Since of their future our young days were robbed!" And she: "Be comforted, unhappy one! I was not churlish of my pity whilst I lived, and am not now, myself so wretched! Oh, do not chide this most unhappy child!" "By all our sufferings, and by the love Which preys upon me," I exclaimed, "and by Our youth, and by the hope that faded from Our lives, O let me, dearest, touch thy hand!" And sweetly, sadly, she extended it. And while I covered it with kisses, while With sorrow and with rapture quivering, I to my panting bosom fondly pressed it, With fervent passion glowed my face and breast, My trembling voice refused its utterance, And all things swam before my sight; when she, Her eyes fixed tenderly on mine, replied: "And dost thou, then, forget, dear friend, that I Am of my beauty utterly deprived? And vainly thou, unhappy one, dost yield To passion's transports. Now, a last farewell! Our wretched minds, our feeble bodies, too, Eternally are parted. Thou to me No longer livest, nevermore shall live. Fate hath annulled the faith that thou hast sworn." Then, in my anguish as I seemed to cry Aloud, convulsed, my eyes o'erflowing with The tears of utter, helpless misery, I started from my sleep. The image still Was seen, and in the sun's uncertain light Above my couch she seemed to linger still.



THE LONELY LIFE.

The morning rain, when, from her coop released, The hen, exulting, flaps her wings, when from The balcony the husbandman looks forth, And when the rising sun his trembling rays Darts through the falling drops, against my roof And windows gently beating, wakens me. I rise, and grateful, bless the flying clouds, The cheerful twitter of the early birds, The smiling fields, and the refreshing air. For I of you, unhappy city walls, Enough have seen and known; where hatred still Companion is to grief; and grieving still I live, and so shall die, and that, how soon! But here some pity Nature shows, though small, Once in this spot to me so courteous! Thou, too, O Nature, turn'st away thy gaze From misery; thou, too, thy sympathy Withholding from the suffering and the sad, Dost homage pay to royal happiness. No friend in heaven, on earth, the wretched hath, No refuge, save his trusty dagger's edge. Sometimes I sit in perfect solitude, Upon a hill, that overlooks a lake, That is encircled quite with silent trees. There, when the sun his mid-day course hath reached, His tranquil face he in a mirror sees: Nor grass nor leaf is shaken by the wind; There is no ripple on the wave, no chirp Of cricket, rustling wing of bird in bush, Nor hum of butterfly; no motion, voice, Or far or near, is either seen or heard. Its shores are locked in quiet most profound; So that myself, the world I quite forget, As motionless I sit; my limbs appear To lie dissolved, of breath and sense deprived; As if, in immemorial rest, they seemed Confounded with the silent scene around.

O love, O love, long since, thou from this breast Hast flown, that was so warm, so ardent, once. Misfortune in her cold and cruel grasp Has held it fast, and it to ice has turned, E'en in the flower of my youth. The time I well recall, when thou this heart didst fill; That sweet, irrevocable time it was, When this unhappy scene of life unto The ardent gaze of youth reveals itself, Expands, and wears the smile of Paradise. How throbs the heart within the boyish breast, By virgin hope and fond desire impelled! The wretched dupe for life's hard work prepares, As if it were a dance, or merry game. But when I first, O love, thy presence felt, Misfortune had already crushed my life, And these poor eyes with constant tears were filled. Yet if, at times, upon the sun-lit slopes, At silent dawn, or when, in broad noonday, The roofs and hills and fields are shining bright, I of some lonely maiden meet the gaze; Or when, in silence of the summer night, My wandering steps arresting, I before The houses of the village pause, to gaze Upon the lonely scene, and hear the voice, So clear and cheerful, of the maiden, who, Her ditty chanting, in her quiet room, Her daily task protracts into the night, Ah, then this stony heart will throb once more; But soon, alas, its lethargy returns, For all things sweet are strangers to this breast!

Beloved moon, beneath whose tranquil rays The hares dance in the groves, and at the dawn The huntsman, vexed at heart, beholds the tracks Confused and intricate, that from their forms His steps mislead; hail, thou benignant Queen Of Night! How unpropitious fall thy rays, Among the cliffs and thickets, or within Deserted buildings, on the gleaming steel Of robber pale, who with attentive ear Unto the distant noise of horses and Of wheels, is listening, or the tramp of feet Upon the silent road; then, suddenly, With sound of arms, and hoarse, harsh voice, and look Of death, the traveller's heart doth chill, Whom he half-dead, and naked, shortly leaves Among the rocks. How unpropitious, too, Is thy bright light along the city streets, Unto the worthless paramour, who picks His way, close to the walls, in anxious search Of friendly shade, and halts, and dreads the sight Of blazing lamps, and open balconies. To evil spirits unpropitious still, To me thy face will ever seem benign, Along these heights, where nought save smiling hills, And spacious fields, thou offer'st to my view. And yet it was my wayward custom once, Though I was innocent, thy gracious ray To chide, amid the haunts of men, whene'er It would my face to them betray, and when It would their faces unto me reveal. Now will I, grateful, sing its constant praise, When I behold thee, sailing through the clouds, Or when, mild sovereign of the realms of air, Thou lookest down on this, our vale of tears. Me wilt thou oft behold, mute wanderer Among the groves, along the verdant banks, Or seated on the grass, content enough, If heart and breath are left me, for a sigh!



CONSALVO.

Approaching now the end of his abode On earth, Consalvo lay; complaining once, Of his hard fate, but now quite reconciled, When, in the midst of his fifth lustre, o'er His head oblivion, so longed-for, hung. As for some time, so, on his dying day, He lay, abandoned by his dearest friends: For in the world, few friends to him will cling, Who shows that he is weary of the world. Yet she was at his side, by pity led, In his lone wretchedness to comfort him, Who was alone and ever in his thought; Elvira, for her loveliness renowned; And knowing well her power; that a look, A single sweet and gracious word from her, A thousand-fold repeated in the heart, Devoted, of her hapless lover, still His consolation and support had been, Although no word of love had she from him E'er heard. For ever in his soul the power Of great desire had been rebuked and crushed By sovereign fear. So great a child and slave Had he become, through his excess of love! But death at last the cruel silence broke; For being by sure signs convinced, that now The day of his deliverance had come, Her white hand taking, as she was about To leave, and gently pressing it, he said: "Thou goest; it is time for thee to go; Farewell, Elvira! I shall never see Thee more; too well I know it; so, farewell! I thank thee for thy gentle sympathy, So far as my poor lips my thanks can speak. He will reward thee, who alone has power, If heaven e'er rewards the merciful." Pale turned the fair one at these words; a sigh Her bosom heaved; for e'en a stranger's heart A throb responsive feels, when she departs, And says farewell forever. Fain would she Have contradicted him, the near approach Of fate concealing from the dying man. But he, her thought anticipating, said: "Ah, much desired, as well thou knowest, death, Much prayed for, and not dreaded, comes to me; Nay, joyful seems to me this fatal day, Save for the thought of losing thee forever; Alas, forever do I part from thee! In saying this my heart is rent in twain. Those eyes I shall no more behold, nor hear Thy voice. But, O Elvira, say, before Thou leavest me forever, wilt thou not One kiss bestow? A single kiss, in all My life? A favor asked, who can deny Unto a dying man? Of the sweet gift I ne'er can boast, so near my end, whose lips To-day will by a stranger's hand be closed Forever." Saying this, with a deep sigh, Her hand beloved he with his cold lips pressed.

The lovely woman stood irresolute, And thoughtful, for a moment, with her look, In which a thousand charms were radiant, Intent on that of the unhappy man, Where the last tear was glittering. Nor would Her heart permit her to refuse with scorn His wish, and by refusal, make more sad The sad farewell; but she compassion took Upon his love, which she had known so long; And that celestial face, that mouth, which he So long had coveted, which had, for years, The burden been of all his dreams and sighs, Close bringing unto his, so sad and wan, Discolored by his mortal agony, Kiss after kiss, all goodness, with a look Of deep compassion, on the trembling lips Of the enraptured lover she impressed.

What didst thou then become? How in thy eyes Appeared life, death, and all thy suffering, Consalvo, in thy flight now pausing? He The hand, which still he held, of his beloved Elvira, placing on his heart, whose last Pulsations love with death was sharing, said: "Elvira, my Elvira, am I still On earth? Those lips, were they thy lips? O, say! And do I press thy hand? Alas, it seems A dead man's vision, or a dream, or thing Incredible! How much, Elvira, O, How much I owe to death! Long has my love Been known to thee, and unto others, for True love cannot be hidden on the earth. Too manifest it was to thee, in looks, In acts, in my unhappy countenance, But never in my words. For then, and now, Forever would the passion infinite, That rules my heart, be silent, had not death With courage filled it. I shall die content; Henceforth, with destiny, no more regret That I e'er saw the light. I have not lived In vain, now that my lips have been allowed Thy lips to press. Nay, happy I esteem My lot. Two precious things the world still gives To mortals, Love and Death. To one, heaven guides Me now, in youth; and in the other, I Am fortunate. Ah, hadst thou once, but once, Responded to my long-enduring love, To my changed eyes this earth for evermore Had been transformed into a Paradise. E'en to old age, detestable old age, Could I have been resigned and reconciled. To bear its heavy load, the memory Of one transcendent moment had sufficed, When I was happier than the happiest, But, ah, such bliss supreme the envious gods To earthly natures ne'er have given! Love In such excess ne'er leads to happiness. And yet, thy love to win, I would have borne The tortures of the executioner; Have faced the rack and fagot, dauntlessly; Would from thy loving arms have rushed into The fearful flames of hell, with cheerfulness.

"Elvira, O Elvira, happy he, Beyond all mortal happiness, on whom Thou dost the smile of love bestow! And next Is he, who can lay down his life for thee! It is permitted, it is not a dream, As I, alas, have always fancied it, To man, on earth true happiness to find. I knew it well, the day I looked on thee. That look to me, indeed, has fatal been: And yet, I could not bring myself, midst all My sufferings, that cruel day to blame.

"Now live, Elvira, happy, and adorn The world with thy fair countenance. None e'er Will love thee as I loved thee. Such a love Will ne'er be seen on earth. How much, alas, How long a time by poor Consalvo hast Thou been with sighs and bitter tears invoked! How, when I heard thy name, have I turned pale! How have I trembled, and been sick at heart, As timidly thy threshold I approached, At that angelic voice, at sight of that Fair brow, I, who now tremble not at death! But breath and life no longer will respond Unto the voice of love. The time has passed; Nor can I e'er this happy day recall. Farewell, Elvira! With its vital spark Thy image so beloved is from my heart Forever fading. Oh, farewell! If this, My love offend thee not, to-morrow eve One sigh wilt thou bestow upon my bier." He ceased; and soon he lost his consciousness: Ere evening came, his first, his only day Of happiness had faded from his sight.



TO THE BELOVED.

Beauty beloved, who hast my heart inspired, Seen from afar, or with thy face concealed, Save, when in visions of the night revealed, Or seen in daydreams bright, When all the fields are filled with light, And Nature's smile is sweet, Say, hast thou blessed Some golden age of innocence, And floatest, now, a shadow, o'er the earth? Or hath Fate's envious doom Reserved thee for some happier day to come?

To see thee e'er alive, No hope remains to me; Unless perchance, when from this body free, My wandering spirit, lone, O'er some new path, to some new world hath flown. E'en here, at first, I, at the dawn Of this, my day, so dreary and forlorn, Sought thee, to guide me on my weary way: But none on earth resembles thee. E'en if One were in looks and acts and words thy peer, Though like thee, she less lovely would appear.

Amidst the deepest grief That fate hath e'er to human lot assigned, Could one but love thee on this earth, Alive, and such as my thought painteth thee, He would be happy in his misery: And I most clearly see, how, still, As in my earliest days, Thy love would make me cling to virtue's ways. Unto my grief heaven hath no comfort brought; And yet with thee, this mortal life would seem Like that in heaven, of which we fondly dream.

Along the valleys where is heard The song of the laborious husbandman, And where I sit and moan O'er youth's illusions gone; Along the hills, where I recall with tears, The vanished joys and hopes of earlier years, At thought of thee, my heart revives again. O could I still thy image dear retain, In this dark age, and in this baleful air! To loss of thee, O let me be resigned, And in thy image still some comfort find!

If thou art one of those Ideas eternal, which the Eternal Mind Refused in earthly form to clothe, Nor would subject unto the pain and strife Of this, our frail and dreary life; Or if thou hast a mansion fair, Amid the boundless realms of space, That lighted is by a more genial sun, And breathest there a more benignant air; From here, where brief and wretched are our days, Receive thy humble lover's hymn of praise!



TO COUNT CARLO PEPOLI.

This wearisome and this distressing sleep That we call life, O how dost thou support, My Pepoli? With what hopes feedest thou Thy heart? Say in what thoughts, and in what deeds, Agreeable or sad, dost thou invest The idleness thy ancestors bequeathed To thee, a dull and heavy heritage? All life, indeed, in every walk of life, Is idleness, if we may give that name To every work achieved, or effort made, That has no worthy aim in view, or fails That aim to reach. And if you idle call The busy crew, that daily we behold, From tranquil morn unto the dewy eve, Behind the plough, or tending plants and flocks, Because they live simply to keep alive, And life is worthless for itself alone, The honest truth you speak. His nights and days The pilot spends in idleness; the toil And sweat in workshops are but idleness; The soldier's vigils, perils of the field, The eager merchant's cares are idle all; Because true happiness, for which alone Our mortal nature longs and strives, no man, Or for himself, or others, e'er acquires Through toil or sweat, through peril, or through care. Yet for this fierce desire, which mortals still From the beginning of the world have felt, But ever felt in vain, for happiness, By way of soothing remedy devised, Nature, in this unhappy life of ours, Had manifold necessities prepared, Not without thought or labor satisfied; So that the days, though ever sad, less dull Might seem unto the human family; And this desire, bewildered and confused, Might have less power to agitate the heart. So, too, the various families of brutes, Who have, no less than we, and vainly, too, Desire for happiness; but they, intent On that which is essential to their life, Consume their days more pleasantly, by far, Nor chide, with us, the dulness of the hours. But we, who unto other hands commit The furnishing of our immediate wants, Have a necessity more grave to meet, For which no other ever can provide, With ennui laden, and with suffering; The stern necessity of killing time; That cruel, obstinate necessity, From which, nor hoarded gold, nor wealth of flocks, Nor fertile fields, nor sumptuous palaces, Nor purple robes, the race of man can save. And if one, scorning such a barren life, And hating to behold the light of day, Turns not a homicidal hand upon Himself, anticipating sluggish Fate, For the sharp sting of unappeased desire, That vainly calls for happiness, he seeks, In desperate chase, on every side, in vain, A thousand inefficient remedies, In lieu of that, which Nature gives to all.

One to his dress devotes himself, and hair, His gait and gesture and the learned lore Of horses, carriages, to crowded halls, To thronged piazzas, and to gardens gay; Another gives his nights and days to games, And feasts, and dances with the reigning belles: A smile perpetual is on his lips; But in his breast, alas, stern and severe, Like adamantine column motionless, Eternal ennui sits, against whose might Avail not vigorous youth, nor prattle fond That falls from rosy lips, nor tender glance That trembles in two dark and lustrous eyes; The most bewildering of mortal things, Most precious gift of heaven unto man.

Another, as if hoping to escape Sad destiny, in changing lands and climes His days consuming, wandering o'er sea And hills, the whole earth traverses; each spot That Nature, in her infinite domain, To restless man hath made accessible, He visits in his wanderings. Alas, Black care is seated on the lofty prow; Beneath each clime, each sky, he asks in vain For happiness; sadness still lives and reigns.

Another in the cruel deeds of war Prefers to pass his hours, and dips his hand, For his diversion, in his brother's blood: Another in his neighbor's misery His comfort finds, and artfully contrives To kill the time, in making others sad. This man still walks in wisdom's ways, or art Pursues; that tramples on the people's rights, At home, abroad; the ancient rest disturbs Of distant shores, on fraudful gain intent, With cruel war, or sharp diplomacy; And so his destined part of life consumes.

Thee a more gentle wish, a care more sweet Leads and controls, still in the flower of youth, In the fair April of thy days, to most A time so pleasant, heaven's choicest gift; But heavy, bitter, wearisome to him Who has no country. Thee the love of song Impels, and of portraying in thy speech The beauty, that so seldom in the world Appears and fades so soon, and that, more rare Which fond imagination, kinder far Than Nature, or than heaven, so bounteously For our entranced, deluded souls provides. Oh, fortunate a thousand-fold is he, Who loses not his fancy's freshness as The years roll by; whom envious Fate permits To keep eternal sunshine in his heart, Who, in his ripe and his declining years, As was his custom in his glorious youth, In his deep thought enhances Nature's charms, Gives life to death, and to the desert, bloom. May heaven this fortune give to thee; and may The spark that now so warms thy breast, make thee In thy old age a votary of song! I feel no more the sweet illusions of That happy time; those charming images Have faded from my eyes, that I so loved, And which, unto my latest hour, will be Remembered still, with hopeless sighs and tears. And when this breast to all things has become Insensible and cold, nor the sweet smile And rest profound of lonely sun-lit plains, Nor cheerful morning song of birds in spring, Nor moonlight soft, that rests on hills and fields, Beneath the limpid sky, will move my heart; When every beauty, both of Nature, and Of Art, to me will be inanimate And mute; each tender feeling, lofty thought, Unknown and strange; my only comfort, then, Poor beggar, must I find in studies more Severe; to them, thenceforward, must devote The wretched remnant of unhappy life: The bitter truth must I investigate, The destinies mysterious, alike Of mortal and immortal things; For what was suffering humanity, Bowed down beneath the weight of misery, Created; to what final goal are Fate And Nature urging it; to whom can our Great sorrow any pleasure, profit give; Beneath what laws and orders, to what end, The mighty Universe revolves—the theme Of wise men's praise, to me a mystery?

I in these speculations will consume My idleness; because the truth, when known, Though sad, has yet its charms. And if, at times, The truth discussing, my opinions should Unwelcome be, or not be understood, I shall not grieve, indeed, because in me The love of fame will be extinguished quite; Of fame, that idol frivolous and blind; More blind by far than Fortune, or than Love.



THE RESURRECTION.

I thought I had forever lost, Alas, though still so young, The tender joys and sorrows all, That unto youth belong;

The sufferings sweet, the impulses Our inmost hearts that warm; Whatever gives this life of ours Its value and its charm.

What sore laments, what bitter tears O'er my sad state I shed, When first I felt from my cold heart Its gentle pains had fled!

Its throbs I felt no more; my love Within me seemed to die; Nor from my frozen, senseless breast Escaped a single sigh!

I wept o'er my sad, hapless lot; The life of life seemed lost; The earth an arid wilderness, Locked in eternal frost;

The day how dreary, and the night How dull, and dark, and lone! The moon for me no brightness had, No star in heaven shone.

And yet the old love was the cause Of all the tears I shed; Still in my inmost breast I felt The heart was not yet dead.

My weary fancy still would crave The images it loved, And its capricious longings still A source of sorrow proved.

But e'en that lingering spark of grief Was soon within me spent, And I the strength no longer had To utter a lament.

And there I lay, stunned, stupefied, Nor asked for comfort more; My heart to hopeless, blank despair Itself had given o'er.

How changed, alas, was I from him Who once with passion thrilled, Whose ardent soul was ever, once, With sweet illusions filled!

The swallow to my window, still, Would come, to greet the dawn; But his sweet song no echo found In my poor heart, forlorn.

Nor pleased me more, in autumn gray, Upon the hill-side lone, The cheerful vesper-bell, or light Of the departing sun.

In vain the evening star I saw Above the silent vale, And vainly warbled in the grove The plaintive nightingale.

And you, ye furtive glances, bright, From gentle eyes that rove, The sweet, the gracious messages Of first immortal Love;

The soft, white hand, that tenderly My own hand seemed to woo; All, all your magic spells were vain, My torpor to subdue.

Of every pleasure quite bereft, Sad but of tranquil mien; A state of perfect littleness, Yet with a face serene;

Save for the lingering wish, indeed, In death to sink to rest, The force of all desire was spent In my exhausted breast.

As some poor, feeble wanderer, With age and sorrow bent, The April of my years, alas, Thus listlessly I spent;

Thus listlessly, thus wearily, Didst thou consume, O heart, Those golden days, ineffable, So swiftly that depart.

Who, from this heavy, heedless rest Awakens me again? What new, what magic power is this, I feel within me reign?

Ye motions sweet, ye images, Ye throbs, illusions blest, Ah, no,—ye are not then shut out Forever from this breast?

The glorious light of golden days Do ye again unfold? The old affections that I lost, Do I once more behold?

Now, as I gaze upon the sky, Or on the verdant fields, Each thing with sorrow me inspires, And each a pleasure yields.

The mountain, forest, and the shore Once more my heart rejoice; The fountain speaks to me once more, The sea hath found a voice.

Who, after all this apathy, Restores to me my tears? Each moment, as I look around, How changed the world appears!

Hath hope, perchance, O my poor heart, Beguiled thee of thy pain? Ah, no, the gracious smile of hope I ne'er shall see again.

Nature bestowed these impulses, And these illusions blest; Their inborn influence, in me, By suffering was suppressed;

But not annulled, not overcome By cruel blows of Fate; Nor by the inauspicious frown Of Truth, importunate!

I know she has no sympathy For fond imaginings; I know that Nature, too, is deaf, Nor heeds our sufferings;

That for our good she nothing cares, Our being, only heeds; And with the sight of our distress Her wild caprices feeds.

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