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 archæological 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.