TO COUNT CARLO PEPOLI.
This wearisome and this distressing sleep That we call life, O how dost thou support, My Pepoli? With what hopes feedest thou Thy heart? Say in what thoughts, and in what deeds, Agreeable or sad, dost thou invest The idleness thy ancestors bequeathed To thee, a dull and heavy heritage? All life, indeed, in every walk of life, Is idleness, if we may give that name To every work achieved, or effort made, That has no worthy aim in view, or fails That aim to reach. And if you idle call The busy crew, that daily we behold, From tranquil morn unto the dewy eve, Behind the plough, or tending plants and flocks, Because they live simply to keep alive, And life is worthless for itself alone, The honest truth you speak. His nights and days The pilot spends in idleness; the toil And sweat in workshops are but idleness; The soldier’s vigils, perils of the field, The eager merchant’s cares are idle all; Because true happiness, for which alone Our mortal nature longs and strives, no man, Or for himself, or others, e’er acquires Through toil or sweat, through peril, or through care. Yet for this fierce desire, which mortals still From the beginning of the world have felt, But ever felt in vain, for happiness, By way of soothing remedy devised, Nature, in this unhappy life of ours, Had manifold necessities prepared, Not without thought or labor satisfied; So that the days, though ever sad, less dull Might seem unto the human family; And this desire, bewildered and confused, Might have less power to agitate the heart. So, too, the various families of brutes, Who have, no less than we, and vainly, too, Desire for happiness; but they, intent On that which is essential to their life, Consume their days more pleasantly, by far, Nor chide, with us, the dulness of the hours. But we, who unto other hands commit The furnishing of our immediate wants, Have a necessity more grave to meet, For which no other ever can provide, With ennui laden, and with suffering; The stern necessity of killing time; That cruel, obstinate necessity, From which, nor hoarded gold, nor wealth of flocks, Nor fertile fields, nor sumptuous palaces, Nor purple robes, the race of man can save. And if one, scorning such a barren life, And hating to behold the light of day, Turns not a homicidal hand upon Himself, anticipating sluggish Fate, For the sharp sting of unappeased desire, That vainly calls for happiness, he seeks, In desperate chase, on every side, in vain, A thousand inefficient remedies, In lieu of that, which Nature gives to all.
One to his dress devotes himself, and hair, His gait and gesture and the learned lore Of horses, carriages, to crowded halls, To thronged piazzas, and to gardens gay; Another gives his nights and days to games, And feasts, and dances with the reigning belles: A smile perpetual is on his lips; But in his breast, alas, stern and severe, Like adamantine column motionless, Eternal ennui sits, against whose might Avail not vigorous youth, nor prattle fond That falls from rosy lips, nor tender glance That trembles in two dark and lustrous eyes; The most bewildering of mortal things, Most precious gift of heaven unto man.
Another, as if hoping to escape Sad destiny, in changing lands and climes His days consuming, wandering o’er sea And hills, the whole earth traverses; each spot That Nature, in her infinite domain, To restless man hath made accessible, He visits in his wanderings. Alas, Black care is seated on the lofty prow; Beneath each clime, each sky, he asks in vain For happiness; sadness still lives and reigns.
Another in the cruel deeds of war Prefers to pass his hours, and dips his hand, For his diversion, in his brother’s blood: Another in his neighbor’s misery His comfort finds, and artfully contrives To kill the time, in making others sad. This man still walks in wisdom’s ways, or art Pursues; that tramples on the people’s rights, At home, abroad; the ancient rest disturbs Of distant shores, on fraudful gain intent, With cruel war, or sharp diplomacy; And so his destined part of life consumes.
Thee a more gentle wish, a care more sweet Leads and controls, still in the flower of youth, In the fair April of thy days, to most A time so pleasant, heaven’s choicest gift; But heavy, bitter, wearisome to him Who has no country. Thee the love of song Impels, and of portraying in thy speech The beauty, that so seldom in the world Appears and fades so soon, and that, more rare Which fond imagination, kinder far Than Nature, or than heaven, so bounteously For our entranced, deluded souls provides. Oh, fortunate a thousand-fold is he, Who loses not his fancy’s freshness as The years roll by; whom envious Fate permits To keep eternal sunshine in his heart, Who, in his ripe and his declining years, As was his custom in his glorious youth, In his deep thought enhances Nature’s charms, Gives life to death, and to the desert, bloom. May heaven this fortune give to thee; and may The spark that now so warms thy breast, make thee In thy old age a votary of song! I feel no more the sweet illusions of That happy time; those charming images Have faded from my eyes, that I so loved, And which, unto my latest hour, will be Remembered still, with hopeless sighs and tears. And when this breast to all things has become Insensible and cold, nor the sweet smile And rest profound of lonely sun-lit plains, Nor cheerful morning song of birds in spring, Nor moonlight soft, that rests on hills and fields, Beneath the limpid sky, will move my heart; When every beauty, both of Nature, and Of Art, to me will be inanimate And mute; each tender feeling, lofty thought, Unknown and strange; my only comfort, then, Poor beggar, must I find in studies more Severe; to them, thenceforward, must devote The wretched remnant of unhappy life: The bitter truth must I investigate, The destinies mysterious, alike Of mortal and immortal things; For what was suffering humanity, Bowed down beneath the weight of misery, Created; to what final goal are Fate And Nature urging it; to whom can our Great sorrow any pleasure, profit give; Beneath what laws and orders, to what end, The mighty Universe revolves—the theme Of wise men’s praise, to me a mystery?
I in these speculations will consume My idleness; because the truth, when known, Though sad, has yet its charms. And if, at times, The truth discussing, my opinions should Unwelcome be, or not be understood, I shall not grieve, indeed, because in me The love of fame will be extinguished quite; Of fame, that idol frivolous and blind; More blind by far than Fortune, or than Love.
THE RESURRECTION.
I thought I had forever lost, Alas, though still so young, The tender joys and sorrows all, That unto youth belong;
The sufferings sweet, the impulses Our inmost hearts that warm; Whatever gives this life of ours Its value and its charm.
What sore laments, what bitter tears O’er my sad state I shed, When first I felt from my cold heart Its gentle pains had fled!
Its throbs I felt no more; my love Within me seemed to die; Nor from my frozen, senseless breast Escaped a single sigh!
I wept o’er my sad, hapless lot; The life of life seemed lost; The earth an arid wilderness, Locked in eternal frost;
The day how dreary, and the night How dull, and dark, and lone! The moon for me no brightness had, No star in heaven shone.
And yet the old love was the cause Of all the tears I shed; Still in my inmost breast I felt The heart was not yet dead.
My weary fancy still would crave The images it loved, And its capricious longings still A source of sorrow proved.
But e’en that lingering spark of grief Was soon within me spent, And I the strength no longer had To utter a lament.
And there I lay, stunned, stupefied, Nor asked for comfort more; My heart to hopeless, blank despair Itself had given o’er.
How changed, alas, was I from him Who once with passion thrilled, Whose ardent soul was ever, once, With sweet illusions filled!
The swallow to my window, still, Would come, to greet the dawn; But his sweet song no echo found In my poor heart, forlorn.
Nor pleased me more, in autumn gray, Upon the hill-side lone, The cheerful vesper-bell, or light Of the departing sun.
In vain the evening star I saw Above the silent vale, And vainly warbled in the grove The plaintive nightingale.
And you, ye furtive glances, bright, From gentle eyes that rove, The sweet, the gracious messages Of first immortal Love;
The soft, white hand, that tenderly My own hand seemed to woo; All, all your magic spells were vain, My torpor to subdue.
Of every pleasure quite bereft, Sad but of tranquil mien; A state of perfect littleness, Yet with a face serene;
Save for the lingering wish, indeed, In death to sink to rest, The force of all desire was spent In my exhausted breast.
As some poor, feeble wanderer, With age and sorrow bent, The April of my years, alas, Thus listlessly I spent;
Thus listlessly, thus wearily, Didst thou consume, O heart, Those golden days, ineffable, So swiftly that depart.
Who, from this heavy, heedless rest Awakens me again? What new, what magic power is this, I feel within me reign?
Ye motions sweet, ye images, Ye throbs, illusions blest, Ah, no,—ye are not then shut out Forever from this breast?
The glorious light of golden days Do ye again unfold? The old affections that I lost, Do I once more behold?
Now, as I gaze upon the sky, Or on the verdant fields, Each thing with sorrow me inspires, And each a pleasure yields.
The mountain, forest, and the shore Once more my heart rejoice; The fountain speaks to me once more, The sea hath found a voice.
Who, after all this apathy, Restores to me my tears? Each moment, as I look around, How changed the world appears!
Hath hope, perchance, O my poor heart, Beguiled thee of thy pain? Ah, no, the gracious smile of hope I ne’er shall see again.
Nature bestowed these impulses, And these illusions blest; Their inborn influence, in me, By suffering was suppressed;
But not annulled, not overcome By cruel blows of Fate; Nor by the inauspicious frown Of Truth, importunate!
I know she has no sympathy For fond imaginings; I know that Nature, too, is deaf, Nor heeds our sufferings;
That for our good she nothing cares, Our being, only heeds; And with the sight of our distress Her wild caprices feeds.
I know the poor man pleads in vain, For others’ sympathy; That scornfully, or heedlessly, All from his presence flee;
That both for genius and for worth, This age has no respect; That all who cherish lofty aims Are left to cold neglect.
And you, ye eyes so tremulous With lustre all divine, I know how false your splendors are, Where no true love doth shine.
No love mysterious and profound Illumes you with its glow; Nor gleams one spark of genial fire Beneath that breast of snow.
Nay, it is wont to laugh to scorn Another’s tender pain; The fervent flame of heavenly love To treat with cold disdain.
Yet I with thankfulness once more The old illusions greet, And feel, with shock of pleased surprise, The heart within me beat.
To thee alone this force renewed, This vital power I owe; From thee alone, my faithful heart, My only comforts flow.
I feel it is the destiny Of every noble 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 grass 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 passed 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 shine, 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 pass 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 vanish! And what mortal can escape Unhappiness, who has already passed 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 passed. To others now it is assigned To journey to and fro upon the earth, And others dwell amid these fragrant hills. How quickly thou hast passed! Thy life was like A dream. While dancing there, joy on thy brow Resplendent shone, anticipations 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 passed, for whom I ever sigh! Hast passed; 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!