"Credei ch'ai tutto fossero
In me, sul fier degl 'anni,
Mancati i dolci affanni
Della mia prima età:
I dolci affanni, i teneri
Moti del cor profondo,
Qualunque cosa al mondo
Grato il sentir ci fa."
What melody and sweetness of style! How richly h e describes his gloom,
and how vividly his revival to the joys of life!
"Meco ritorna a vivere
La piaggia, il bosco, il monte;
Parla al mio core il fonte,
Meco favella il mar."
And how noble is the conclusion:
"Mancano, il sento, all anima,
Alta, gentile e pura,
La sorte, la natura,
Il mondo e la beltà.
Ma se tu vivi, O misero,
Se non concedi al fato,
Non chiamerò spietato
Chi lo spirar mi dà."
Of the other poems I hope I have been able to give an almost adequate
rendering; but of this, such a rendering was impossible. The sense is
so blended with the music of the verse, and the music is so peculiar to
the Italian language, that I doubt whether any translation could ever
do it full justice. It is quite unique among his works. He never wrote
anything before or afterwards even remotely like it. He seems to have
revelled in the sweetness of the melody, and to have sported with his
sorrow in the music of the lines.
XXI. "A Silvia." The subject of this poem was a young girl of Recanati,
whom the poet and his brother Carlo used frequently to see in their
young days. It is a beautiful specimen of his almost supernatural
powers of concentration and depth. From bewailing her untimely end,
the poet rises to contemplate the vanity of earthly things. "Before
such masterpieces," Montefredini justly observes, "as 'Silvia' and the
'Passero Solitario,' we are struck dumb with admiration." It is an
instance of how powerful an effect a great writer can produce by slight
means.
XXII. "Le Ricordanze." If I were asked to award the palm to one above
all the other "Canti," I should name the "Ricordanze." It offers a
combination of the rarest beauties. Possessing the highest biographical
interest as a picture of his youth, it invests all the visions it
conjures up with the richest poetical colouring. The reader will
observe how simple is the opening, and how the verses gradually rise in
thought and style until they reach the splendid outburst:
"E che pensieri immensi,
Che dolci sogni mi spirò la vista
Di quel lontano mar, quei monti azzurri,
Che di qua scopro, e che varcare un giorno
Io mi pensava, acani mondi, acana
Felicità fingendo al viver mio!"
This superb passage is concluded with the utterance of tragic emotion:
"Ignaro del mio fato, e quante volte
Questa mia vita dolorosa e nuda
Volentier con la morte avrei cangiato."
Then, by a natural transition, he introduces the celebrated imprecation
on Recanati, the energy of which leads us to forget its injustice. How
beautifully is youth called "the solitary flower of barren life!"
Still more beautiful is the following paragraph with its description
of happy childhood. The apostrophe to his vanished hopes is full of
sublimity, as also the picture of his gloomy meditations. The two
last paragraphs make a worthy conclusion, especially the transcendant
passage on Nerina, to which no parallel can be found in the whole range
of lyric poetry.
XXIII. "Canto Notturno di un Pastore Errante dell' Asia." This poem
was suggested by a passage in Baron Meyendorffs "Voyage d'Orenbourg à
Boukhara," quoted in the "Journal des Savans," for September, 1826,
where, speaking of a nomadic tribe of Asia, he says: "Plusieurs d'entre
eux passent la nuit assis sur une pierre à regarder la lune, et à
improviser des paroles assez tristes sur des airs qui ne le sont pas
moins." Some critics are inclined to place the "Canto Notturno" above
all other productions of our poet, and the opening is indeed divine:
"Che fai tu, Luna, in ciel? dimmi, che fai,
Silenziosa Luna?
Sorgi la sera, e vai,
Contemplando i deserti; indi ti posi.
Ancor non sei tu paga
Di riandare i sempiterni calli?
Ancor non prendi a schivo, ancor sei vaga
Di mirar queste valli?"
"The picture of life in the second stanza," says Montefredini, "is as
gloomily sublime as anything ever written of a similar nature. It seems
laden with the sighs of oppressed humanity. And what repose amidst
the universal darkness! What a style!--like the voice of an immortal.
All is solemn, immense, eternal. This poem will ever be the poem of
all nations--the noblest and grandest expression of human sorrow."
Great praise is also due to the skill with which the poet preserves the
character he has assumed. The shepherd does not enter into abstruse and
subtle speculations--he only gives utterance to a vague wonder at the
mystery of things, and this vagueness makes the poem deeply impressive.
But still there remains something unsatisfactory in the latter part,
and the gloom of the conclusion is exaggerated.
XXIV. "La Quiete dopo la Tempesta" is a feeble copy of verses. There is
a lovely touch of natural description:
"Ecco il sereno
Rompe là da ponente, alla montagna;
Sgombrasi la campagna,
_E chiaro nella valle il fiume appare._"
Otherwise it offers nothing remarkable.
XXV. "Il Sabato del Villaggio" opens with an exquisitely idyllic
description of a girl returning with flowers from a country ramble, and
of an old woman relating the memories of her youth, while spinning with
her neighbours. The description of evening is worthy of Wordsworth:
"Già tutta l'aria imbruna,
Torna azzurro il sereno, e tornan l'ombre
Giù da colli e da' tetti,
Al biancheggiar della recente luna."
But the remainder of the poem is insufferably languid and trivial.
Those two pieces are omitted in translation.
XXVI. "Il Pensiero Dominante" is an instance of our poet's mighty
originality. It is as profound as a chorus of Æschylus, and fathoming
its mystic depths is like venturing on an unknown ocean. The simile of
the Pilgrim is strikingly beautiful, and more so in a poet singularly
sparing of such ornaments.
XXVII. "Amore e Morte" equals its predecessor in originality, and
surpasses it in tenderness. The Greek simplicity and purity of style
conceal the morbid and diseased sources of its inspiration. The
apostrophe to death is the most fervent prayer ever uttered in song.
XXVIII. "A Se Stesso" is the only poem of Leopardi that is from
beginning to end utterly gloomy, bitter and despairing. All his other
poems have at least glimpses of beauty and serenity, but here there are
none.
XXIX. "Aspasia." The passion rushes forth wildly and ungovernably in
this outburst of unrequited affection. Every word betrays how deeply
he loved the woman to whom it is addressed. It seems to me worthy of a
high rank among his poems, as proving how fully he enters into every
subject he treats. His embodiment of an abstruse metaphysical idea in
the most impassioned poetry is above all praise.
XXX. "Sopra un Basso Rilievo Antico Sepolcrale" is deficient in warmth
of colouring, but the apostrophe to Nature and the pathetic conclusion
are fine.
XXXI. "Sopra il Ritratto di una Bella Donna" is a feeble echo of the
former not very successful poem, and is, therefore, omitted in our
translation.
XXXII. "Palinodia al Marchese Gino Capponi." This is the only satire
in this collection, but it does not equal the satiric vigour shown
in the mock-heroic "Paralipomeni." The humour is forced and the
style heavy, an unhappy imitation of Parini's elaborate irony. It is
written to prove that the inventions of modern times do not add to the
real happiness of mankind. I have omitted it, because not offering a
favourable sample of our poet's lighter manner.
XXXIII. "Il Tramonto della Luna" is a lamentation on the infirmities
of old age, written at a time when the poet imagined his life would
be prolonged. It has some affinity to the conclusion of the "Passero
Solitario," but the earlier poem is truer, because more moderately
expressed.
XXXIV. "La Ginestra o il Fiore del Deserto." The last four poems
were not in our author's highest strain, but in the "Ginestra" he
summoned all his dying powers, and left a sublime legacy to the world.
"Ineffable poetry!" exclaims Giordani, "full of thunder and lightning
and funereal depth." We need not insist on its beauties, on the noble
opening, on the picturesque descriptions of the Vesuvius in the
latter part, descriptions that enhance and illustrate the philosophic
meditations. Giordani was of opinion that it was his best work, and
it certainly surpasses the others in one respect: it is characterised
by a spirit of sublime repose, resignation, and sweetness--a worthy
conclusion of his poetical career. But I do not doubt that many pieces
in this collection are more attractive to the general reader.
The remaining seven numbers of the "Canti" consist only of fragments
and translations. The eighteen opening lines of the fragment beginning:
"Spento il diurno raggio in Occidente."
offer a splendid description of a moonlight night.
And now that we have passed in review the works of this great poet,
we enquire wherein lies the charm, the irresistible charm, of his
writings. That charm has been felt by the greatest minds of the
century, and by many who have no sympathy with his philosophy. Alfred
de Musset, who had certainly little in common with the man or the
poet, wrote enthusiastic verses on the "sombre amant de la mort," and
declared that in the small volume of his poems more was to be found
than in works of epic length.
I am inclined to think that the secret of his power lies in the
unique and exquisite contrast between the bitterness and gloom of his
thoughts and the sweetness and radiant beauty of his style. When other
poets give utterance to their misery and despair, they impart a sable
colouring to their diction. Not so Leopardi. He can exclaim:
"So che natura é sorda,
Che miserar non sa."
But the verses are steeped in loveliness and melody. Such is the first
and most powerful cause of the great effect he produces. Next we must
place, though higher in absolute merit, his quality of depth. With
the exception of Shakespeare and Dante, there is, I think, no poet
of modern times who equals him in depth of thought. Every subject he
treats he pierces to the core. Other poets may delight us with airier
and more brilliant flights of fancy, but Leopardi leads us to the brink
of abysses, and shews us their unfathomable depth. Fully to enjoy this
power we must read his finest passages slowly, and let each verse
saturate the mind. Hence the impression, after reading his "Canti,"
that we have perused, not a small collection of short poems, but a work
of mighty design like "King Lear," or "Prometheus."
The third cause of his greatness, but one that will weigh more with
critics than with the general public, is the austere severity of his
taste, which confines him strictly within the boundaries of his genius.
He never allows himself to enter an arena for which he knows himself
unfitted. He always remains purely poetical. He is never, except in
a few passages of his earliest poems, declamatory, and even when the
subject is philosophical, he avoids becoming merely moralizing. Hence
his productions are perfect of their kind. We must also allow him the
merit of never being tedious, and the skill of choosing attractive
subjects. But what will probably most endear him to posterity, is
the profound pathos, the human sympathy, he displays. From his own
sufferings he learnt to feel for those of all mankind.
With regard to this translation, it has been my endeavour to render my
author's thoughts as accurately as possible; and whatever merits my
version may lack, it has at least the merit of fidelity. Fortunately,
the great freedom of Leopardi's metres makes fidelity not very
difficult to attain. Many of his poems are in blank verse, others in
a very peculiar union of rhymed and unrhymed iambic verses of eleven
and seven syllables. It is curious to observe how the poet in his
latter works more and more discards rhyme, as if it were too frivolous
an ornament for his lofty meditations, the harmonious effect being
produced by exquisite choice of words, and skilful variety of cadence.
Several poems are written in regular stanzas, but with some unrhymed
lines. I have translated the second, third, and sixth poems exactly in
the metrical arrangement of the original, with the same succession of
rhymed and unrhymed verses, only making the last line of each stanza
an Alexandrine. The "Last Song of Sappho," is also in the metre of the
original, but I always conclude regular stanzas with an Alexandrine.
Other poems in regular stanzas I have rendered without reference to the
rhymes of the original, with the exception of the "Primo Amore" and
the "Risorgimento." Italian critics do not find fault with Leopardi's
capricious use of rhymed and unrhymed verses, but I should have
scrupled to introduce it into the English language, had I not found
in Milton's "Lycidas" a precedent for so doing. In that poem there
are some verses without rhyme, though not so many as in Leopardi's
compositions; but in "Samson Agonistes," we find the chorus using
rhymes or not, with unlimited freedom.