The Poems Of Giacomo Leopardi Part 8

I feel it is the destiny Of every n.o.ble mind, In Fate, in Fortune, Beauty, and the World, An enemy to find:

But while thou liv'st, nor yield'st to Fate, Contending without fear, I will not tax with cruelty The power that placed me here.

TO SYLVIA.

O Sylvia, dost thou remember still That period of thy mortal life, When beauty so bewildering Shone in thy laughing, glancing eyes, As thou, so merry, yet so wise, Youth's threshold then wast entering?

How did the quiet rooms, And all the paths around, With thy perpetual song resound, As thou didst sit, on woman's work intent, Abundantly content With the vague future, floating on thy mind!

Thy custom thus to spend the day In that sweet time of youth and May!

How could I, then, at times, In those fair days of youth, The only happy days I ever knew, My hard tasks dropping, or my careless rhymes, My station take, on father's balcony, And listen to thy voice's melody, And watch thy hands, as they would deftly fly O'er thy embroidery!

I gazed upon the heaven serene, The sun-lit paths, the orchards green, The distant mountain here, And there, the far-off sea.

Ah, mortal tongue cannot express What then I felt of happiness!

What gentle thoughts, what hopes divine, What loving hearts, O Sylvia mine!

In what bright colors then portrayed Were human life and fate!

Oh, when I think of such fond hopes betrayed, A feeling seizes me Of bitterness and misery, And tenfold is my grief renewed!

O Nature, why this treachery?

Why thus, with broken promises, Thy children's hearts delude?

Thou, ere the gra.s.s was touched with winter's frost, By fell disease attacked and overcome, O tender plant, didst die!

The flower of thy days thou ne'er didst see; Nor did thy soft heart move Now of thy raven locks the tender praise, Now of thy eyes, so loving and so shy; Nor with thee, on the holidays, Did thy companions talk of love.

So perished, too, erelong, My own sweet hope; So too, unto my years Did Fate their youth deny.

Alas, alas the day, Lamented hope, companion dear, How hast thou pa.s.sed away!

Is _this_ that world? These the delights, The love, the labors, the events, Of which we once so fondly spoke?

And must _all_ mortals wear this weary yoke?

Ah, when the truth appeared, It better seemed to die!

Cold death, the barren tomb, didst thou prefer To harsh reality.

RECOLLECTIONS.

Ye dear stars of the Bear, I did not think I should again be turning, as I used, To see you over father's garden s.h.i.+ne, And from the windows talk with you again Of this old house, where as a child I dwelt, And where I saw the end of all my joys.

What charming images, what fables, once, The sight of you created in my thought, And of the lights that bear you company!

Silent upon the verdant clod I sat, My evening thus consuming, as I gazed Upon the heavens, and listened to the chant Of frogs that in the distant marshes croaked; While o'er the hedges, ditches, fire-flies roamed, And the green avenues and cypresses In yonder grove were murmuring to the wind; While in the house were heard, at intervals, The voices of the servants at their work.

What thoughts immense in me the sight inspired Of that far sea, and of the mountains blue, That yonder I behold, and which I thought One day to cross, mysterious worlds and joys Mysterious in the future fancying!

Of my hard fate unconscious, and how oft This sorrowful and barren life of mine I willingly would have for death exchanged!

Nor did my heart e'er tell me, I should be Condemned the flower of my youth to spend In this wild native region, and amongst A wretched, clownish crew, to whom the names Of wisdom, learning, are but empty sounds, Or arguments of laughter and of scorn; Who hate, avoid me; not from envy, no; For they do not esteem me better than Themselves, but fancy that I, in my heart, That feeling cherish; though I strive, indeed, No token of such feeling to display.

And here I pa.s.s my years, abandoned, lost, Of love deprived, of life; and rendered fierce, 'Mid such a crowd of evil-minded ones, My pity and my courtesy I lose, And I become a scorner of my race, By such a herd surrounded; meanwhile, fly The precious hours of youth, more precious far Than fame, or laurel, or the light of day, Or breath of life: thus uselessly, without One joy, I lose thee, in this rough abode, Whose only guests are care and suffering, O thou, the only flower of barren life!

The wind now from the tower of the town The deep sound of the bell is bringing. Oh, What comfort was that sound to me, a child, When in my dark and silent room I lay, Besieged by terrors, longing for the dawn!

Whate'er I see or hear, recalls to mind Some vivid image, recollection sweet; Sweet in itself, but O how bitter made By painful sense of present suffering, By idle longing for the past, though sad, And by the still recurring thought, "_I was_"!

Yon gallery that looks upon the west; Those frescoed walls, these painted herds, the sun Just rising o'er the solitary plain, My idle hours with thousand pleasures filled, While busy Fancy, at my side, still spread Her bright illusions, wheresoe'er I went.

In these old halls, when gleamed the snow without, And round these ample windows howled the wind, My sports resounded, and my merry words, In those bright days, when all the mysteries And miseries of things an aspect wear, So full of sweetness; when the ardent youth Sees in his untried life a world of charms, And, like an unexperienced lover, dotes On heavenly beauty, creature of his dreams!

O hopes, illusions of my early days!-- Of you I still must speak, to you return; For neither flight of time, nor change of thoughts, Or feelings, can efface you from my mind.

Full well I know that honor and renown Are phantoms; pleasures but an idle dream; That life, a useless misery, has not One solid fruit to show; and though my days Are empty, wearisome, my mortal state Obscure and desolate, I clearly see That Fortune robs me but of little. Yet, Alas! as often as I dwell on you, Ye ancient hopes, and youthful fancy's dreams, And then look at the blank reality, A life of ennui and of wretchedness; And think, that of so vast a fund of hope, Death is, to-day, the only relic left, I feel oppressed at heart, I feel myself Of every comfort utterly bereft.

And when the death, that I have long invoked, Shall be at hand, the end be reached of all My sufferings; when this vale of tears shall be To me a stranger, and the future fade, Fade from sight forever; even then, shall I Recall you; and your images will make Me sigh; the thought of having lived in vain, Will then intrude, with bitterness to taint The sweetness of that day of destiny.

Nay, in the first tumultuous days of youth, With all its joys, desires, and sufferings, I often called on death, and long would sit By yonder fountain, longing, in its waves To put an end alike to hope and grief.

And afterwards, by lingering sickness brought Unto the borders of the grave, I wept O'er my lost youth, the flower of my days, So prematurely fading; often, too, At late hours sitting on my conscious bed, Composing, by the dim light of the lamp, I with the silence and the night would moan O'er my departing soul, and to myself In languid tones would sing my funeral-song.

Who can remember you without a sigh, First entrance into manhood, O ye days Bewitching, inexpressible, when first On the enchanted mortal smiles the maid, And all things round in emulation smile; And envy holds its peace, not yet awake, Or else in a benignant mood; and when, --O marvel rare!--the world a helping hand To him extends, his faults excuses, greets His entrance into life, with bows and smiles Acknowledges his claims to its respect?

O fleeting days! How like the lightning's flash, They vanis.h.!.+ And what mortal can escape Unhappiness, who has already pa.s.sed That golden period, his own _good_ time, That comes, alas, so soon to disappear?

And thou, Nerina, does not every spot Thy memory recall? And couldst thou e'er Be absent from my thought? Where art thou gone, That here I find the memory alone, Of thee, my sweet one? Thee thy native place Beholds no more; that window, whence thou oft Wouldst talk with me, which sadly now reflects The light of yonder stars, is desolate.

Where art thou, that I can no longer hear Thy gentle voice, as in those days of old, When every faintest accent from thy lips Was wont to turn me pale? Those days have gone.

They _have been_, my sweet love! And thou with them Hast pa.s.sed. To others now it is a.s.signed To journey to and fro upon the earth, And others dwell amid these fragrant hills.

How quickly thou hast pa.s.sed! Thy life was like A dream. While dancing there, joy on thy brow Resplendent shone, antic.i.p.ations bright Shone in thy eyes, the light of youth, when Fate Extinguished them, and thou didst prostrate lie.

Nerina, in my heart the old love reigns.

If I at times still go unto some feast, Or social gathering, unto myself I say: "Nerina, thou no more to feast Dost go, nor for the ball thyself adorn."

If May returns, when lovers offerings Of flowers and of songs to maidens bring, I say: "Nerina mine, to thee spring ne'er Returns, and love no more its tribute brings."

Each pleasant day, each flowery field that I Behold, each pleasure that I taste, the thought Suggest: "Nerina pleasure knows no more, The face of heaven and earth no more beholds."

Ah, thou hast pa.s.sed, for whom I ever sigh!

Hast pa.s.sed; and still the memory of thee Remains, and with each thought and fancy blends Each varying emotion of the heart; And _will_ remain, so bitter, yet so sweet!

NIGHT SONG OF A WANDERING SHEPHERD IN ASIA.

What doest thou in heaven, O moon?

Say, silent moon, what doest thou?

Thou risest in the evening; thoughtfully Thou wanderest o'er the plain, Then sinkest to thy rest again.

And art thou never satisfied With going o'er and o'er the selfsame ways?

Art never wearied? Dost thou still Upon these valleys love to gaze?

How much thy life is like The shepherd's life, forlorn!

He rises in the early dawn, He moves his flock along the plain; The selfsame flocks, and streams, and herbs He sees again; Then drops to rest, the day's work o'er; And hopes for nothing more.

Tell me, O moon, what signifies his life To him, thy life to thee? Say, whither tend My weary, short-lived pilgrimage, Thy course, that knows no end?

And old man, gray, infirm, Half-clad, and barefoot, he, Beneath his burden bending wearily, O'er mountain and o'er vale, Sharp rocks, and briars, and burning sand, In wind, and storm, alike in sultry heat And in the winter's cold, His constant course doth hold; On, on, he, panting, goes, Nor pause, nor rest he knows; Through rus.h.i.+ng torrents, over watery wastes; He falls, gets up again, And ever more and more he hastes, Torn, bleeding, and arrives at last Where ends the path, Where all his troubles end; A vast abyss and horrible, Where plunging headlong, he forgets them all.

Such scene of suffering, and of strife, O moon, is this our mortal life.

In travail man is born; His birth too oft the cause of death, And with his earliest breath He pain and torment feels: e'en from the first, His parents fondly strive To comfort him in his distress; And if he lives and grows, They struggle hard, as best they may, With pleasant words and deeds to cheer him up, And seek with kindly care, To strengthen him his cruel lot to bear.

This is the best that they can do For the poor child, however fond and true.

But wherefore give him life?

Why bring him up at all, If _this_ be all?

If life is nought but pain and care, Why, why should we the burden bear?

O spotless moon, such _is_ Our mortal life, indeed; But thou immortal art, Nor wilt, perhaps, unto my words give heed.