The Poems Of Giacomo Leopardi Part 11

ON AN OLD SEPULCHRAL BAS-RELIEF.

WHERE IS SEEN A YOUNG MAIDEN, DEAD, IN THE ACT OF DEPARTING, TAKING LEAVE OF HER FAMILY.

Where goest thou? Who calls Thee from my dear ones far away?

Most lovely maiden, say!

Alone, a wanderer, dost thou leave Thy father's roof so soon?

Wilt thou unto its threshold e'er return?

Wilt thou make glad one day, Those, who now round thee, weeping, mourn?

Fearless thine eye, and spirited thy act; And yet thou, too, art sad.

If pleasant or unpleasant be the road, If gay or gloomy be the new abode, To which thou journeyest, indeed, In that grave face, how difficult to read!

Ah, hard to me the problem still hath seemed; Not hath the world, perhaps, yet understood, If thou beloved, or hated by the G.o.ds, If happy, or unhappy shouldst be deemed.

Death calls thee; in thy morn of life, Its latest breath. Unto the nest Thou leavest, thou wilt ne'er return; wilt ne'er The faces of thy kindred more behold; And under ground, The place to which thou goest will be found; And for all time will be thy sojourn there.

Happy, perhaps, thou art: but he must sigh Who, thoughtful, contemplates thy destiny.

Ne'er to have seen the light, e'en at the time, I think; but, born, e'en at the time, When regal beauty all her charms displays, Alike in form and face, And at her feet the admiring world Its distant homage pays; When every hope is in its flower, Long, long ere dreary winter flash His baleful gleams against the joyous brow; Like vapor gathered in the summer cloud, That melting in the evening sky is seen To disappear, as if one ne'er had been; And to exchange the brilliant days to come, For the dark silence of the tomb; The intellect, indeed, May call this, happiness; but still It may the stoutest b.r.e.a.s.t.s with pity fill.

Thou mother, dreaded and deplored From birth, by all the world that lives, Nature, ungracious miracle, That bringest forth and nourishest, to kill, If death untimely be an evil thing, Why on these innocent heads Wilt thou that evil bring?

If good, why, why, Beyond all other misery, To him who goes, to him who must remain, Hast thou such parting crowned with hopeless pain?

Wretched, where'er we look, Whichever way we turn, Thy suffering children are!

Thee it hath pleased, that youthful hope Should ever be by life beguiled; The current of our years with woes be filled, And death against all ills the only s.h.i.+eld: And this inevitable seal, And this immutable decree, Hast thou a.s.signed to human destiny, Why, after such a painful race, Should not the goal, at least, Present to us a cheerful face?

Why that, which we in constant view, Must, while we live, forever bear, Sole comfort in our hour of need, Thus dress in weeds of woe, And gird with shadows so, And make the friendly port to us appear More frightful than the tempest drear?

If death, indeed, be a calamity, Which thou intendest for us all, Whom thou, against our knowledge and our will, Hast forced to draw this mortal breath, Then, surely, he who dies, A lot more enviable hath Then he who feels his loved one's death.

But, if the truth it be, As I most firmly think, That life is the calamity, And death the boon, alas! who ever _could_, What yet he _should_, Desire the dying day of those so dear, That he may linger here, Of his best self deprived, May see across his threshold borne, The form beloved of her, With whom so many years he lived, And say to her farewell, Without the hope of meeting here again; And then alone on earth to dwell, And, looking round, the hours and places all, Of lost companions.h.i.+p recall?

Ah, Nature! how, how _couldst_ thou have the heart, From the friend's arms the friend to tear, The brother from the brother part, The father from the child, The lover from his love, And, killing one, the other keep alive?

What dire necessity Compels such misery That lover should the loved one e'er survive?

But Nature in her cruel dealings still, Pays little heed unto our good or ill.

ON THE PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN, CARVED ON HER MONUMENT.

Such _wast_ thou: now in earth below, Dust and a skeleton thou art.

Above thy bones and clay, Here vainly placed by loving hands, Sole guardian of memory and woe, The image of departed beauty stands.

Mute, motionless, it seems with pensive gaze To watch the flight of the departing days.

That gentle look, that, wheresoe'er it fell, As now it seems to fall, Held fast the gazer with its magic spell; That lip, from which as from some copious urn, Redundant pleasure seems to overflow; That neck, on which love once so fondly hung; That loving hand, whose tender pressure still The hand it clasped, with trembling joy would thrill; That bosom, whose transparent loveliness The color from the gazer's cheek would steal; All these _have been_; and now remains alone A wretched heap of bones and clay, Concealed from sight by this benignant stone.

To this hath Fate reduced The form, that, when with life it beamed, To us heaven's liveliest image seemed.

O Nature's endless mystery!

To-day, of grand and lofty thoughts the source, And feelings not to be described, Beauty rules all, and seems, Like some mysterious splendor from on high Forth-darted to illuminate This dreary wilderness; Of superhuman fate, Of fortunate realms, and golden worlds, A token, and a hope secure To give our mortal state; To-morrow, for some trivial cause, Loathsome to sight, abominable, base Becomes, what but a little time before Wore such an angel face; And from our minds, in the same breath, The grand conception it inspired, Swift vanishes and leaves no trace.

What infinite desires, What visions grand and high, In our exalted thought, With magic power creates, true harmony!

O'er a delicious and mysterious sea, The exulting spirit glides, As some bold swimmer sports in Ocean's tides: But oh, the mischief that is wrought, If but one accent out of tune a.s.saults the ear! Alas, how soon Our paradise is turned to naught!

O human nature, why is this?

If frail and vile throughout, If shadow, dust thou art, say, why Hast thou such fancies, aspirations high?

And yet, if framed for n.o.bler ends, Alas, why are we doomed To see our highest motives, truest thoughts, By such base causes kindled, and consumed?

PALINODIA.

TO THE MARQUIS GINO CAPPONI.

I was mistaken, my dear Gino. Long And greatly have I erred. I fancied life A vain and wretched thing, and this, our age, Now pa.s.sing, vainest, silliest of all.

Intolerable seemed, and _was_, such talk Unto the happy race of mortals, if, Indeed, man ought or could be mortal called.

'Twixt anger and surprise, the lofty creatures laughed Forth from the fragrant Eden where they dwell; Neglected, or unfortunate, they called me; Of joy incapable, or ignorant, To think my lot the common lot of all, Mankind, the partner in my misery.

At length, amid the odor of cigars, The crackling sound of dainty pastry, and The orders loud for ices and for drinks, 'Midst clinking gla.s.ses, and 'midst brandished spoons, The daily light of the gazettes flashed full On my dim eyes. I saw and recognized The public joy, and the felicity Of human destiny. The lofty state I saw, and value of all human things; Our mortal pathway strewed with flowers; I saw How naught displeasing here below endures.

Nor less I saw the studies and the works Stupendous, wisdom, virtue, knowledge deep Of this our age. From far Morocco to Cathay, and from the Poles unto the Nile, From Boston unto Goa, on the track Of flying Fortune, emulously panting, The empires, kingdoms, dukedoms of the earth I saw, now clinging to her waving locks, Now to the end of her encircling boa.

Beholding this, and o'er the ample sheets Profoundly meditating, I became Of my sad blunder, and myself, ashamed.

The age of gold the spindles of the Fates, O Gino, are evolving. Every sheet, In each variety of speech and type, The splendid promise to the world proclaims, From every quarter. Universal love, And iron roads, and commerce manifold, Steam, types, and cholera, remotest lands, Most distant nations will together bind; Nor need we wonder if the pine or oak Yield milk and honey, or together dance Unto the music of the waltz. So much The force already hath increased, both of Alembics, and retorts, and of machines, That vie with heaven in working miracles, And will increase, in times that are to come: For, evermore, from better unto best, Without a pause, as in the past, the race Of Shem, and Ham, and j.a.phet will progress.

And yet, on acorns men will never feed, Unless compelled by hunger; never will Hard iron lay aside. Full oft, indeed, They gold and silver will despise, bills of Exchange preferring. Often, too, the race Its generous hands with brothers' blood will stain, With fields of carnage filling Europe, and The other sh.o.r.e of the Atlantic sea, The new world, that the old still nourishes, As often as it sends its rival bands Of armed adventurers, in eager quest Of pepper, cinnamon, or other spice, Or sugar-cane, aught that ministers Unto the universal thirst for gold.

True worth and virtue, modesty and faith, And love of justice, in whatever land, From public business will be still estranged, Or utterly humiliated and O'erthrown; condemned by Nature still, To sink unto the bottom. Insolence And fraud, with mediocrity combined, Will to the surface ever rise, and reign.

Authority and strength, howe'er diffused, However concentrated, will be still Abused, beneath whatever name concealed, By him who wields them; this the law by Fate And nature written first, in adamant: Nor can a Volta with his lightnings, nor A Davy cancel it, nor England with Her vast machinery, nor this our age With all its floods of Leading Articles.

The good man ever will be sad, the wretch Will keep perpetual holiday; against All lofty souls both worlds will still be armed Conspirators; true honor be a.s.sailed By calumny, and hate, and envy; still The weak will be the victim of the strong; The hungry man upon the rich will fawn, Beneath whatever form of government, Alike at the Equator and the Poles; So will it be, while man on earth abides, And while the sun still lights him on his way.

These signs and tokens of the ages past Must of necessity their impress leave Upon our brightly dawning age of gold: Because society from Nature still Receives a thousand principles and aims, Diverse, discordant; which to reconcile, No wit or power of man hath yet availed, Since first our race, ill.u.s.trious, was born; Nor _will_ avail, or treaty or gazette, In any age, however wise or strong.

But in things more important, how complete, Ne'er seen, till now, will be our happiness!

More soft, from day to day, our garments will Become, of woollen or of silk. Their rough Attire the husbandman and smith will cast Aside, will swathe in cotton their rough hides, And with the skins of beavers warm their backs.

More serviceable, more attractive, too, Will be our carpets and our counterpanes, Our curtains, sofas, tables, and our chairs; Our beds, and their attendant furniture, Will a new grace unto our chambers lend; And dainty forms of kettles and of pans, On our dark kitchens will their l.u.s.tre shed.

From Paris unto Calais, and from there To London, and from there to Liverpool, More rapid than imagination can Conceive, will be the journey, nay the flight; While underneath the ample bed of Thames, A highway will be made, immortal work, That _should_ have been completed, years ago.

Far better lighted, and perhaps as safe, At night, as now they are, will be the lanes And unfrequented streets of Capitals; Perhaps, the main streets of the smaller towns.

Such privileges, such a happy lot, Kind heaven reserves unto the coming race.

How fortunate are they, whom, as I write, Naked and whimpering, in her arms receives The midwife! They those longed-for days may hope To see, when, after careful studies we Shall know, and every nursling shall imbibe That knowledge with the milk of the dear nurse, How many hundred-weight of salt, and how Much flesh, how many bushels, too, of flour, His native town in every month consumes; How many births and deaths in every year The parish priest inscribes: when by the aid Of mighty steam, that, every second, prints Its millions, hill and dale, and ocean's vast Expanse, e'en as we see a flock of cranes Aerial, that suddenly the day obscure, will with Gazettes be overrun; Gazettes, of the great Universe the life And soul, sole fount of wisdom and of wit, To this, and unto every coming age!

E'en as a child, who carefully constructs, Of little sticks and leaves, an edifice, In form of temple, palace, or of tower; And, soon as he beholds the work complete, The impulse feels, the structure to destroy, Because the self-same sticks and leaves he needs, To carry out some other enterprise; So Nature every work of hers, however It may delight us with its excellence, No sooner sees unto perfection brought, Than she proceeds to pull it all to pieces, For other structures using still the parts.

And vainly seeks the human race, itself Or others from the cruel sport to save, The cause of which is hidden from its sight Forever, though a thousand means it tries, With skilful hand devising remedies: For cruel Nature, child invincible, Our efforts laughs to scorn, and still its own Caprices carries out, without a pause, Destroying and creating, for its sport.

And hence, a various, endless family Of ills incurable and sufferings Oppresses the frail mortal, doomed to death Irreparably; hence a hostile force, Destructive, smites him from within, without, On every side, perpetual, e'en from The day of birth, and wearies and exhausts, Itself untiring, till he drops at last, By the inhuman mother crushed, and killed.

Those crowning miseries, O gentle friend, Of this our mortal life, old age and death, E'en then commencing, when the infant lip The tender breast doth press, that life instils, This happy nineteenth century, I think, Can no more help, than could the ninth, or tenth, Nor will the coming ages, more than this.

Indeed, if we may be allowed to call The truth by its right name, no other than Supremely wretched must each mortal be, In every age, and under every form Of government, and walk and mode of life; By nature hopelessly incurable, Because a universal law hath so Decreed, which heaven and earth alike obey.

And yet the lofty spirits of our age A new discovery have made, almost Divine; for, though they cannot make A single person happy on the earth, The man forgetting, they have gone in quest Of universal happiness, and this, Forsooth, have found so easily, that out Of many wretched individuals, They can a happy, joyful people make.

And at this miracle, not yet explained By quarterly reviews, or pamphlets, or Gazettes, the common herd in wonder smile.

O minds, O wisdom, insight marvellous Of this our pa.s.sing age! And what profound Philosophy, what lessons deep, O Gino, In matters more sublime and recondite, This century of thine and mine will teach To those that follow! With what constancy, What yesterday it scorned, upon its knees To-day it wors.h.i.+ps, and will overthrow To-morrow, merely to pick up again The fragments, to the idol thus restored, To offer incense on the following day!

How estimable, how inspiring, too, This unanimity of thought, not of The age alone, but of each pa.s.sing year!

How carefully should we, when we our thought With this compare, however different From that of next year it may be, at least Appearance of diversity avoid!

What giant strides, compared with those of old, Our century in wisdom's school has made!