In all the splendour of the holy Kingdom
Flashed in its crimson light the mortal field
Of Montaperto, and along the wastes
Deserted and malignant came the sound,
Dreary and dull, of dying warriors' sighs:
To which far off responded
With a great cry of mingled human woe
The cursed battle-field of Campaldino.
And thou, Rea Meloria,
Didst rise from the Tuscan sea
To tell the glory of this horrid slaughter,
And of the Thyrrenian shores made desolate
With this our madness, and the sea's great bosom
All stained with blood, and far Liguria's strand
Filled with the moan of lonely Pisan exiles
And children born for fratricidal war.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
JUVENILIA.
XXXIV
ON THE SIXTH CENTENARY OF DANTE
I saw him, from the uncovered tomb uplifting
His mighty form, the imperial prophet stand.
Then shook the Adrian shore, and all the land
Italia trembled as at an earthquake drifting.
Like morning mist from purest ether sifting,
It marched along the Apenninian strand,
Glancing adown the vales on either hand,
Then vanished like the dawn to daylight shifting.
Meanwhile in earthly hearts a fear did rise,
The awful presence of a god discerning,
To which no mortal dared to lift the eyes.
But where, beyond the gates, the sun is burning,
The races dead of warlike men and wise
With joy saluted the great soul's returning.
LEVIA GRAVIA.
XXXV
BEATRICE
The shining face
Smiled straight into the skies;
A rosy glow was on her archéd neck;
Her radiant brow,
Lofty, serene, and fair,
And her glance like a rose new-blown,
And the fresh smile
Of pure youth,
Awakened in the heart new ecstasies:
But awe-inspiring
And with fear entrancing
Was her presence.
Floating on the wind
In the morning air
Was her sky-blue mantle, her white veil.
Like Our Lady from heaven
She passed before me,
An angel in seeming and yet all so ardent.
My mind stopped thinking
But to look at her,
And the soul was at rest—but for sighing.
Then said I: O how or when
Did earth deserve
That such a mark of love be given her?
What reckless ancestors
Gave thee to the world?
What age ever bore so fair a thing as thou?
What serener star
Produced thy form?
What love divine evolved thee from its light?
Easily the ways of man
Following the blessed guidance
Of thee, Beatrice, were all made new!
—“Not a woman, but the Idea
Am I, which heaven did offer
For man to study when seeking things on high.
“When hearts, not wholly cooled
Of their potential fires,
Fought hard with life severe, and with the truth,
“And to the valiant thinking
And courageous hope
Faith and true love lent arms of constancy,—
“Then, from my airy seat descending,
Among these gallant souls I came,
Kindled and kept alive their ardent zeal;
“And, faithful to my champions,
Clasped in their mighty embrace,
I made them worship Death—yea, and Defeat,
“While, traced by dreamy souls
In verse and colours,
I wandered through the laurels on Arno's banks.
“In vain you look for me
'Mong your poor household gods—
No Bice Portinari—I am the Idea!”
JUVENILIA.
XXXVI
“A questi dí prima io la vidi. Uscia”
These were the days when first I saw her growing
Like bud to flower in the time of spring,
Her figure such a sweet and lovely thing
As if one heard love's richest music flowing.
The bashful blushes on her cheeks were showing
What native grace her gentle speech could bring;
As on smooth seas the stars their radiance fling,
So in her laughing eyes the soul was glowing.
'T was such I saw her. Now with mad desire
As in a world of stifling air alone
I wander, weak and worn with my inquiring,
Till strength remains only her name to moan
As with each breath I feel my life expiring:
O Light of all my years, where art thou flown?
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
JUVENILIA.
XXXVII
“Non son quell'io che già d'amiche cene”
I am not he who amid wine cups flowing
Rouses to joy the festive board of friends:
Heavy with bitter weariness is going
The time that to my mind no banquet sends.
Anger alone is that fierce life bestowing
Over whose board my heart all ravenous bends.
O fair green years when brightest hopes were growing
That now lie withered as when summer ends!
Even the charm of sweet imagination
No more its soul-beguiling power retains,
But in its place stands life, mute, dread, appalling,
And over all a shade whose intonation
As if of grief that it alone remains
To some still shore afar is ever calling.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
JUVENILIA.
XXXVIII
THE ANCIENT TUSCAN POETRY
A child in gardens, fields, and city squares
I grew 'mid war's alarms and love's alluring;
But manhood's school of mysteries and cares
Enticed me to the temple's dark immuring.
Where now the lofty dames, with glance securing
What free-born knight or brave civilian dares?
Bright April days the roses bloom assuring?
The oak that through the castle rampart stares?
Poor and alone, again to that dear dwelling
I come where pious love did once deny
That I should heed the Enchantress' sweet impelling.
Open! O Child: though be the times awry,
Thy vision, Beatrice, wakes my heart's rebelling,—
Open! The Tuscan poesy am I!
LEVIA GRAVIA.
XXXIX
OLD FIGURINES
Like as an infant, beaten by its mother
or but half conquered in a wayward quarrel,
tired, falls asleep, with its little fists
tight clenched and with tear-wet eyelids,—
So does my passion, O fair Lalage,
sleep in my bosom; nor thinking, nor caring,
whether in rosy May-time wander playing
the other happy infants in the sun.
O wake 't not, Lalage! or thou shalt hear
my passion, like a very God of battles,
putting an end to sports so innocent,
to flay the very heavens with its raging!
ODI BARBARE.
XL
MADRIGAL
Breaking his way through the white clouds in the azure,
The sun laughs out and cries:
“O Springtime, come!”
Across the greening hills with placid murmurs
The streams sing back to the breeze:
“O Springtime, come!”
“O Springtime, come!” to his heart the poet is saying,
While gazing, O pure Lalage, in thine eyes!
ODI BARBARE.
XLI
SNOWED UNDER
Slowly the snow-flakes fall through the ashen heavens: no clamour
nor sound whatever comes up from the street.
No cry of the vender of fruits, no rumbling of cart-wheels,
no ballad of love wailing forth from the lips of youth.
Hoarse from the towers of the square the hours groan out,—
Sighs that come from a world far remote from our daylight.
Birds, that homeless wander, peck at the darkened window:
Souls of the lost ones returning! they watch me and call me to
them.
Shortly, O dear Ones, shortly—Heart! tame thy restless rebelling—
down to your silence, down to your peaceful shades will I come!
ODI BARBARE.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] “Rome itself had never gathered the Italian cities into what
we call a nation; and when Rome, the world's head, fell, the
municipalities of Italy remained, and the Italian people sprang to
life again by contact with their irrecoverable past. Then, though the
church swayed Europe from Italian soil, she had nowhere less devoted
subjects than in Italy. Proud as the Italians had been of the empire,
proud as they now were of the church, still neither the Roman Empire
nor the Roman Church imposed on the Italian character.”—_Symonds's_
“Renaissance in Italy.” _Literature._ II., p. 524.
[2] See _La Poesia e l'Italia nella Quarta Crociata_. Discourses in the
presence of her Majesty the Queen. _Nuova Antologia_, Rome, February,
1889.
The poems of Carducci have been published for the most part in the
following collections: _Poesie_ (Florence, G. Barbera, 1871) comprises
the poems previously published under the pseudonym Enotrio Romano in
three successive issues—1, _Juvenilia_, the author's early productions
in the years 1850-1857, 2, _Levia Gravia_, written between the years
1857 and 1870, and 3, _Decennali_, produced in the decade 1860-1870;
_Nuove Poesie_, 1879; _Odi Barbare_, Bologna, 1877; _Nuove Odi
Barbare_, 1886; _Nuove Rime_, Bologna, 1887. Besides the last named
the publisher Zanichelli, in Bologna, has also issued editions of
the author's _Discorsi Letterari e Storici_ and _Primi Saggi_; and a
complete edition of the author's writings, in twenty vols. 16mo, is
promised by the same publisher.
[3] Is there an allusion here to Michael Angelo's Christ in the Church
of Santa Maria sopra Minerva at Rome?
[4] “Doubtless the great painters saw, first and before all things, the
human being; but in this being they saw the race, and they could not
discern the race without disengaging the vague ideal which struggles in
it, which exists even in inferior creatures, unknown to themselves and
yet consubstantial with their blood. The languor and, at the same time,
the strength of this land of mountains, whose feet are bathed by the
waters of fever-breeding marshes, the mysticism and the wildness of the
compatriots of St. Francis of Assisi, the dreamy melancholy inspired
by the contemplation of sleeping lakes—all those traits, elaborated by
the working of heredity through centuries, Perugino saw more clearly
than any one else, but he had only to detect them. He divined them
instinctively in the outline of the cheek, the colour of the eye,
the turn of the head. It is in this interpretation, at once humble
and sympathetic, that the veritable imitation of nature consists, in
which all is soul, even, and above all the form—a soul which seeks
itself, disguises itself at times and even debases itself, but a soul
nevertheless and one that reveals itself only to the soul.”
[5] Goethe's Friendship with Schiller. _Fortnightly Review_, Aug., 1891.
[6] Familiar contraction of the name Beatrice.
[7] The allusion is to the figure of “Roma” as seen upon ancient coins.
Transcriber's Notes
Original spelling and punctuation have been preserved as much as
possible. Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.