on nature, Carducci proves himself the true realist. Whatever form
he chooses, is for the time filled with its own life, and speaks from
that and no other. I have introduced the “Hymn to the Redeemer” [XI],
that _Lauda Spirituale_, which the poet describes in the passage from
his autobiography quoted in the previous essay as a youthful literary
experiment, in which he attempted to clothe the spiritual idea of the
Christ with the form of the pagan triumphal ode. The heroic picture
of the Redeemer of the world returning from Battle as a Victor and
receiving triumphal honour and applause, is novel, and not without a
high order of beauty. It seems, indeed, to minds trained to modern
religious thought, more pagan than Christian; but one may question
whether this aspect of Christ as the Hero is not one which the Church
has erroneously overlooked in her tendency to lay stress on the
vicarious sacrifice of Christ, rather than on the actual deliverance
wrought for man by Him in His warfare against the infernal hosts,
setting the race thereby spiritually free from bondage. Do we not see
here the same attempt to present the Christian Redemption in ancient
heroic form, as the Pisan sculptors made when they copied from pagan
sarcophagi the figures of their apostles and saints? It was not the
conventional way; but we feel that they might have done worse.
A few poems from Carducci's youthful period, in which he indulges in
the meaningless melancholy, the passion and despair, incident to that
stage of the poet's growth, I have introduced, as showing that he too
had his sentimental side. In these he describes his emotions. They
are the sonnets from the _Juvenilia_, beginning respectively with the
following lines:
O questi di prima io la vidi. Uscia. [XXXVI]
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Non son quell'io che già d'amiche cene. [XXXVII]
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Passa la nave mia, sola, tra il pianto. [XXI]
As such they are beautiful, but they lack that objectivity and
realistic power which is felt in those poems where, as in life, the
emotion tells itself, and does not need to be described.
In the _Odi Barbare_, for which title I am unable to find a better
rendering than “Barbaric Odes,” foreign as it may seem to the character
of these exquisitely finished verses, I have followed the poet's choice
in omitting to capitalize the initial words of the lines. Many of these
poems are without rhyme, and, for the sake of greater faithfulness in
translating them, I have sometimes discarded both the rhyme and the
strict rhythmical form.
F. S.
WASHINGTON, D. C., June, 1892.
POEMS
I
ROMA
Give to the wind thy locks; all glittering
Thy sea-blue eyes, and thy white bosom bared,
Mount to thy chariots, while in speechless roaring
Terror and Force before thee clear the way!
The shadow of thy helmet like the flashing
Of brazen star strikes through the trembling air.
The dust of broken empires, cloud-like rising,
Follows the awful rumbling of thy wheels.
So once, O Rome, beheld the conquered nations
Thy image, object of their ancient dread.[7]
To-day a mitre they would place upon
Thy head, and fold a rosary between
Thy hands. O name! again to terrors old
Awake the tired ages and the world!
DECENNALI.
II
TO SATAN
To thee my verses,
Unbridled and daring,
Shall mount, O Satan,
King of the banquet.
Away with thy sprinkling,
O Priest, and thy droning,
For never shall Satan,
O Priest, stand behind thee.
See how the rust is
Gnawing the mystical
Sword of St. Michael;
And how the faithful
Wind-plucked archangel
Falls into emptiness!
Frozen the thunder in
Hand of Jehovah.
Like to pale meteors, or
Planets exhausted,
Out of the firmament
Rain down the angels.
Here in the matter
Which never sleeps,
King of phenomena,
King of all forms,
Thou, Satan, livest!
Thine is the empire
Felt in the dark eyes'
Tremulous flashing,
Whether their languishing
Glances resist, or,
Glittering and tearful, they
Call and invite.
How shine the clusters
With happy blood,
So that the furious
Joy may not perish!
So that the languishing
Love be restored,
And sorrow be banished
And love be increased!
Thy breath, O Satan,
My verses inspires
When from my bosom
The gods I defy
Of Kings pontifical,
Of Kings inhuman:
Thine is the lightning that
Sets minds to shaking.
For thee Arimane,
Adonis, Astarte;
For thee lived the marbles,
The pictures, the parchments,
When the fair Venus
Anadiomene
Blessed the Ionian
Heavens serene.
For thee were roaring the
Forests of Lebanon,
Of the fair Cyprian
Lover reborn;
For thee rose the chorus,
For thee raved the dances,
For thee the pure shining
Loves of the virgins,
Under the sweet-odoured
Palms of Idume,
Where break in white foam
The Cyprian waves.
What if the barbarous
Nazarene fury,
Fed by the base rites
Of secret feastings,
Lights sacred torches
To burn down the temples,
Scattering abroad
The scrolls hieroglyphic?
In thee find refuge
The humble-roofed plebs,
Who have not forgotten
The gods of their household.
Thence comes the power,
Fervid and loving, that,
Filling the quick-throbbing
Bosom of woman,
Turns to the succour
Of nature enfeebled,
A sorceress pallid,
With endless care laden.
Thou to the trance-holden
Eye of the alchemist,
Thou to the view of the
Bigoted mago,
Showest the lightning-flash
Of the new time
Shining behind the dark
Bars of the cloister.
Seeking to fly from thee
Here in the world-life,
Hides him the gloomy monk
In Theban deserts.
O soul that wanderest
Far from the straight way,
Satan is merciful.
See Héloïsa!
In vain you wear yourself
Thin in rough gown; I
Still murmur the verses
Of Maro and Flaccus
Amid the Davidic
Psalming and wailing;
And—Delphic figures
Close to thy side—
Rosy, amid the dark
Cowls of the friars,
Enters Licorida,
Enters Glicera.
Then other images
Of days more fair
Come to dwell with thee
In thy secret cell.
Lo! from the pages of
Livy, the Tribunes
All ardent, the Consuls,
The crowds tumultuous,
Awake; and the fantastic
Pride of Italian
Drives thee, O Monk,
Up to the Capitol;
And you, whom the flaming
Pyre never melted,
Conjuring voices,
Wiclif and Huss,
Send to the broad breeze
The cry of the watchman:
“The age renews itself;
Full is the time!”
Already tremble
The mitres and crowns.
Forth from the cloister
Moves the rebellion.
Under his stole, see,
Fighting and preaching,
Brother Girolamo
Savonarola.
Off goes the tunic
Of Martin Luther;
Off go the fetters
That bound human thought.
It flashes and lightens,
Girdled with flame.
Matter, exalt thyself!
Satan has won!
A fair and terrible
Monster unchained
Courses the oceans,
Courses the earth;
Flashing and smoking,
Like the volcanoes, he
Climbs over mountains,
Ravages plains,
Skims the abysses;
Then he is lost
In unknown caverns
And ways profound,
Till lo! unconquered,
From shore to shore,
Like to the whirlwind,
He sends forth his cry.
Like to the whirlwind
Spreading its wings...
He passes, O people,
Satan the great!
Hail to thee, Satan!
Hail, the Rebellion!
Hail, of the reason the
Great Vindicator!
Sacred to thee shall rise
Incense and vows!
Thou hast the god
Of the priests disenthroned!
III
HOMER
And from the savage Urals to the plain
A new barbarian folk shall send alarms,
The coast of Agenorean Thebes again
Be waked with sound of chariots and of arms;
And Rome shall fall; and Tiber's current drain
The nameless lands of long-deserted farms:
But thou, like Hercules, shalt still remain,
Untouched by fiery Etna's deadly charms;
And with thy youthful temples laurel-crowned
Shalt rise to the eternal Form's embrace
Whose unveiled smile all earliest was thine;
And till the Alps to gulfing sea give place,
By Latin shore or on Achæan ground,
Like heaven's sun, shalt thou, O Homer, shine!
LEVIA GRAVIA.
IV
VIRGIL
As when above the heated fields the moon
Hovers to spread its veil of summer frost,
The brook between its narrow banks half lost
Glitters in pale light, murmuring its low tune;
The nightingale pours forth her secret boon,
Whose strains the lonely traveller accost;
He sees his dear one's golden tresses tossed,
And time forgets in love's entrancing swoon;
And the orphaned mother who has grieved in vain
Upon the tomb looks to the silent skies
And feels their white light on her sorrow shine;
Meanwhile the mountains laugh, and the far-off main,
And through the lofty trees a fresh wind sighs:
Such is thy verse to me, Poet divine!
LEVIA GRAVIA.
V
INVOCATION TO THE LYRE
If once I cut thee with a trembling hand
From Latin bough to Phœbus that belongs,
So now, O Lyre, shalt thou rehearse the songs
Of the Tuscan land.
What consolations fierce to bosoms hard
Of bristling warriors thou wast wont to bring,
Or else in peace the soothing verse to sing
Of the Lesbian bard!
Thou taughtest them of Venus and of Love,
And of the immortal son of Semele,
The Lycian's hair, the glowing majesty
Of deep-browed Jove.
Now, when I strike, comes smiling to my side
The spirit of Flaccus, and through choirs divine
Of laurelled nymphs that radiant round me shine,
Calmly I glide.
O dear to Jove and Phœbus! Sway benignant
Which art chief guardian of our cities' peace,
Answer our prayers! and bid the discord cease
Of souls malignant!
JUVENILIA.
VI
SUN AND LOVE
Fleecy and white into the western space
Hurry the clouds; the wet sky laughs
Over the market and streets; and the labour of man
Is hailed by the sun, benign, triumphal.
High in the rosy light lifts the cathedral
Its thousand pinnacles white and its saints of gold
Flashing forth its hosannas; while all around
Flutter the wings and the notes of the brown-plumed choir.
So 'tis when love and its sweet smile dispel
The clouds which had so sorely me oppressed;
The sun again arises in my soul
With all life's holiest ideals renewed
And multiplied, the while each thought becomes
A harmony and every sense a song.
NUOVE POESIE.
VII
TO AURORA
Thou risest and kissest, O Goddess, with rosy breath, the clouds,
Kissest the dusky pinnacles of marble temples.
The forests feel thee and with a cool shiver awake;
Up soars the falcon flashing in eager joy.
Meanwhile amid the wet leaves mutter the garrulous nests,
And far off the grey gull screams over the purple sea.
First to delight in thee, down in the laborious plain,
Are the streams which glisten amid the rustling poplars.
Daringly the sorrel colt breaks away from his feeding,
Runs to the brooks with high-lifted mane, neighing in the wind.
Wakeful answers from the huts the great pack of the hounds,
And the whole valley is filled with the sound of their noisy
barking.
But the man whom thou awakest to life-consuming labour,
He, O ancient Youth, O Youth eternal,
Still thoughtful admires thee, even as on the mountain
The Aryan Fathers adored thee, standing amid their white oxen.
Again upon the wing of the fresh morning flies forth
The hymn which to thee they sang over their heaped-up spears.
“Shepherdess thou of heaven! from the stalls of thy jealous sister
Thou loosest the rosy kine and leadest them back to the skies:
Thou leadest the rosy kine, and the white herds, and the horses
With the blond flowing manes dear to the brothers Asvini.”
Like a youthful bride who goes from her bath to her spouse,
Reflecting in her eyes the love of him her lover,
So dost thou smiling let fall the light garments that veil thee,
And serene to the heavens thy virgin figure reveal.
Flushed thy cheeks, with white breast panting, thou runnest
To the sovereign of worlds, to the fair flaming Suria.
And he joins and, in a bow, stretches around his mighty neck
Thy rosy arms: but at his terrible glances thou fleest.
'Tis then the Asvinian Twins, the cavaliers of heaven,
Welcome thee rosily trembling in thy chariot of gold,
And thither thou turnest where, measured the road of glory,
Wearied, the god awaits thee in the dull gloaming of eve.
“Gracious thy flight be above us!” so invoked thee the fathers,
“Gracious the going of thy radiant car over our houses.
“Come from the coasts of the East with thy good fortune,
Come, with thy flowering oats and thy foaming milk.
“And in the midst of the calves, dancing, with yellow locks,
An offspring vast shall adore thee, O Shepherdess of heaven!”
So sang the Aryans. But better pleased thee Hymettus,
Fresh with the twenty brooks whose banks smelt to heaven of thyme;
Better pleased thee on Hymettus the nimble-limbed, mortal huntsman,
Who with the buskined foot pressed the first dews of the morn.
The heavens bent down. A sweet blush tinged the forest and the
hills,
When thou, O Goddess, didst descend.
But thou descendedst not; rather did Cephalus, drawn by thy kiss,
Mount, all alert, through the air, fair as a beautiful god,—
Mount on the amorous winds and amid the sweet odours,
While all around were the nuptials of flowers and the marriage of
streams.
Wet lies upon his neck the heavy tress of gold and the golden
quiver
Reaches above his white shoulder, held by the belt of vermilion.
O fragrant kisses of a goddess among the dews!
O ambrosia of love in the world's youth-time!
Dost thou also love, O goddess? But ours is a wearied race;
Sad is thy face, O Aurora, when thou risest over our towers.
The dim street-lamps go out; and without even glancing at thee,
A pale-faced troop go home imagining they have been happy.
Angrily at his door is pounding the ill-tempered labourer,
Cursing the dawn that only calls him back to his bondage.
Only the lover, perhaps, fresh from the dreams of the loved one,
His blood still warm from her kisses, salutes thee with joy,
Beholds with delight thy face, and feels thy cool breathing upon
him:
Then cries, “O bear me, Aurora, upon thy swift courser of flame,—
“Bear me up into the fields of the stars, that there, looking down,
I may behold the earth beneath thy rosy light smiling,—
“Behold my fair one in the face of the rising day,
Let fall her black tresses down over her blushing bosom.”
ODI BARBARE.
VIII
RUIT HORA
O green and silent solitudes far from the rumours of men!
Hither come to meet us true friends divine, O Lidia,
Wine and love.
O tell me why the sea far under the flaming Hesperus
Sends such mysterious moanings; and what songs are these, O Lidia,
The pines are chanting?
See with what longing the hills stretch their arms to the setting
sun!
The shadow lengthens and holds them; they seem to be asking
A last kiss, O Lidia!
ODI BARBARE.
IX
THE OX
T'amo, pio bove
I love thee, pious ox; a gentle feeling
Of vigour and of peace thou giv'st my heart.
How solemn, like a monument, thou art!
Over wide fertile fields thy calm gaze stealing,
Unto the yoke with grave contentment kneeling,
To man's quick work thou dost thy strength impart.
He shouts and goads, and answering thy smart,
Thou turn'st on him thy patient eyes appealing.
From thy broad nostrils, black and wet, arise
Thy breath's soft fumes; and on the still air swells,
Like happy hymn, thy lowing's mellow strain.
In the grave sweetness of thy tranquil eyes
Of emerald, broad and still reflected dwells
All the divine green silence of the plain.
X
TO PHŒBUS APOLLO
The sovereign driver
Of the ethereal chariot
Whips the fiery wing-footed steeds—
A Titan most beautiful.
· · · · · · · · · · ·
From the Thessalian valley,
From the Ægean shores,
The vision divine of the prophets
Hellenic saw thee arise,
The youthful god most fair;
Rising through the deserted skies,
Thy feet had wings of fire,
Thy chariot was a flame,
And around thee danced
In the sphere serene
The twenty-four virgins,
In colours tawny and bright.
Didst thou not live? Did the
Mæonian verse never reach thee?
And did Proclus in vain call thee
The Love of the universe?
The inexorable truth
With its cold shadow covered
Thee, the phantom of ages past,
Hellas' god and mine.
Now, where is the chariot and the golden,
Radiant brow of youth?
An unsightly mouldering heap
Gloomily flashing remains.
Alas, from the Ausonian lands
All the gods are flown!
In a vast solitude
Thou remainest, my Muse.
In vain, O Ionian virgin,
Thy songs and thy calling on Homer;
Truth, the sallow-faced, rises
From her deserts and threatens.
Farewell, O Titan Apollo,
Who governed the rolling year;
Alone is left to lead me
Love, the last delusion.
Let us go: in the acts and the smiles
Of my Delia still do the Graces
Reveal themselves, as of old
Cephisus beheld them.
Perish the sober age
That quenches the life in me,
That freezes in souls Phœbean
The Hellenic song!
JUVENILIA.
XI
HYMN TO THE REDEEMER
(_For the Feast of Corpus Domini_)
Open, O human race,
Open wide the gates!
Behold there comes to you a mighty One,
Who brings you glory and has conquered death.
Before Him let no sound of fear arise,
No sad complaints from dolorous companies.
All nature makes a feast as if to adorn
Herself, in presence of the coming Spouse.
Bring then, O Children, scatter in the way
The immortal laurel and the blushing rose
With the pure whiteness of the jessamine.
Behold He comes, the mighty King encrowned
With victory's trophies hither to your midst.
Before His face fly Death and Sin away,
While Peace and Health move at His either side.
Behold the Lord who of rebellious man
Suffered Himself the doom
And payed our ransom with His own heart's blood.
He made Himself the fellow of our grief,
He bore our burden and endured our shame.
Black over Him did fall the shadow of death.
Nor turned the Father to His cry the face—
That day when, seeing again the sacred Mount,
Came from their tombs
The prophets and the saints of Israel!
Behold the Isaac of the ancient time,
Who bends beneath the sword his gentle neck
And looks upon his slayer with a smile,
Kneeling to him in all humility.
No pity for the blooming flower of youth;
None for that bitter end,
Nor for the robbed embraces of the mother.
And now, His death forever witnessing,
He brings with Him Divine Humanity,
Irradiating all the earth with joy
As when the sun dispels the gloomy cloud;
And all the abodes of woe and that dark land
Where dwelt the shadow of death
He comforts with His presence all divine.
To Him upon His throne of victory
Be lifted up the gaze of every art,
Whom glory like a cloud doth gird around
And love angelical encompasseth.
Fly thither from the world where grief still sighs,
Where death still bides and reigns,
Fly, O my song, to Him who thee deserves,
And there relate the sorrows of His people
Who, from the good astray, still seek the good,
Like hart that panteth for the cooling stream,
Or bird imprisoned for its native air:
He from the sphere divine wherein He dwells
May send a ray benign
To souls perplexed and lost in their life's way.
Lift, O human race,
Lift up your minds
And chastened hearts to this most clement King,
Who welcomes those who turn to Him in faith!
JUVENILIA.
XII
OUTSIDE THE CERTOSA
The dead are saying: “Blessed are ye who walk along the hillsides
Flooded with the warm rays of the golden sun.
“Cool murmur the waters through flowery slopes descending.
Singing are the birds to the verdure, singing the leaves to the
wind.
“For you are smiling the flowers ever new on the earth;
For you smile the stars, the flowers eternal of heaven.”
The dead are saying: “Gather the flowers, for they too pass away;
Adore the stars, for they pass never away.
“Rotted away are the garlands that lay around our damp skulls.
Roses place ye around the tresses golden and black.
“Down here it is cold. We are alone. Oh, love ye the sun!
Shine, constant star of Love, on the life which passes away!”
ODI BARBARE.
XIII
DANTE
O Dante, why is it that I adoring
Still lift my songs and vows to thy stern face,
And sunset to the morning grey gives place
To find me still thy restless verse exploring?
Lucia prays not for my poor soul's resting;
For me Matilda tends no sacred fount;
For me in vain the sacred lovers mount,
O'er star and star to the eternal soaring.
I hate the Holy Empire, and the crown
And sword alike relentless would have riven
From thy good Frederic on Olona's plains.
Empire and Church to ruin have gone down,
And yet for them thy songs did scale high heaven.
Great Jove is dead. Only the song remains.
LEVIA GRAVIA.
XIV
IN A GOTHIC CHURCH
They rise aloft, marching in awful file,
The polished shafts immense of marble grey,
And in the sacred darkness seem to be
An army of giants
Who wage a war with the invisible;
The silent arches soar and spring apart
In distant flight, then re-embrace again
And droop on high.
So in the discord of unhappy men,
From out their barbarous tumult there go up
To God the sighs of solitary souls
In Him united.
Of you I ask no God, ye marble shafts,
Ye airy vaults! I tremble—but I watch
To hear a dainty well-known footstep waken
The solemn echoes.
'Tis Lidia, and she turns, and, slowly turning,
Her tresses full of light reveal themselves,
And love is shining from a pale shy face
Behind the veil.
XV
INNANZI, INNANZI!
On, on! through dusky shadows up the hill
Stretches the shining level of the snow,
Which yields and creaks each laboured step I go,
My breath preceding in a vapour chill.
Now silent all. There where the clouds stand still
The moon leaps forth into the blank, to throw
An awful shadow, a gaunt pine below,
Of branches crossed and bent in manner ill.
They seem like the uneasy thought of death.
O Winter vast, embrace me and quick stay
In icy hold my heart's tempestuous waves!
For yet that thought, shipwrecked, again draws breath,
And cries to heaven: O Night, O Winter, say,
What are the dead doing down there in their graves?
XVI
SERMIONE
“Peninsularum, Sirmio, insularumque
Ocelle.”—CATULLUS.
See how green Sermio laughs in the lake's lucid waters,
she the peninsula's flower!
The Sun pours down his caresses, while, all around, the Benaco
shines like a great silver cup
along whose rim is entwined a wreath of peaceful olive
mixed with the laurel eternal;
and so the radiant goblet Italia the Mother holds forth
with lofty arms to the gods;
and they from the skies have let thee fall in, O Sermio,
thee, the peninsular jewel!
Above, the paternal mountain boldly stands guard o'er thy beauty,
watching with gloomy eyebrow.
Beneath lies the land like a Titan slain in some desperate battle,
prostrate, but threatening revenge.
But along the curved shores of the bay at the left of the mountain
stretch out the fair white arms
like unto those of a child who, happy on entering the dance,
throws to the breeze her hair,
laughs, and with generous hand deals out her flowers right and
left,
and crowns the chief youth with her garland.
Garda there, far below, lifts up her dusky shoulders
over the liquid mirror,
singing the while a saga of cities ancient and buried,
and their barbaric kings.
But here, O Lalage, whence, through the holy joys of the azure,
thou sendest thy soul-glance;
here Valerius Catullus moored to the wet rocks, of old,
his frail pitched canoe,
sat through the long days and watched in the waves, phosphorescent
and tremulous,
the eyes of his Lesbia;
yea, and saw in those waves the changing moods of his Lesbia,
saw her perfidious smile,
the while she beguiled with her charms, through darksome haunts of
the town,
the princely nephews of Romulus.
To him from the humid depths sang forth the nymph of the lake,
“Come to us, Quintus Valerius!
“Here to our grottoes descend still the sun rays, but silvery
and mild as those of Cynthia.
“Here the assiduous tumults that burden thy life but resemble
the distant humming of bees,
“and, in the silence cool, thy cares, all frenzied and fearful,
gently fade into oblivion.
“Here the fresh air, here the sleep, the soothing music and chorus
of the cerulean virgins,
“while Hesperus over the waters broadens his rosy face,
and the waves are lapping the shore.”
Alas for sad Love! how the Muses he hates; how the poet he shatters
with lust, or with jealousy kills!
But who from thine eyes and the wars they are plotting afar,
O Lalage, who shall protect?
Pluck for the Muses three boughs of sacred laurel and myrtle,
wave them in sunlight eternal!
Seest thou not from Peschiera how the flocks of white swans are
swimming
down through the silvery Mincio?
Dost thou not hear from the green pastures where sleeps Bianore
the sound of Virgilius' voice?
O Lalage, turn and adore! From yonder tower of the Scaligers
looks out a face stern and grand.
“Suso in Italia bella,” smiling he murmurs, and looks
at the water, the earth, and the sky.
ODI BARBARE.
XVII
TO A HORSE
Hail to thee, valiant steed! To thee the palm,
To thee its wild applause the ring is raising.
Who slanders thee sings an ignoble psalm,
In vain his own poor wit and judgment praising.
Thy body, fair as with no shining balm,
But with the spirit's inward ardour blazing,
Speeds to the prize. Then in what beauty calm
Dost thou stand still, upon thy rivals gazing!
Thou wouldst have been among the conquering
To gain for brave Automedon the pæan
That once from Grecian lips did joyous ring!
O, that for thee might blaze the sands Elean,
For thee great hymns the godlike Pindar sing,
Following thee there upon the waves Alphaean!
JUVENILIA.
XVIII
A DREAM IN SUMMER
In the midst of thy song, O Homer, with battles ever resounding,
the midsummer heat overcame me; my head fell asleep
there on Scamander's bank; but my heart fled at once,
as soon as set free, back again to the shore of Tyrrhenia.