Where now are all the charming dreams Of the mysterious retreats Of dwellers unto us unknown, Or where, by day, the stars to rest have gone, Or of the couch remote of Eos bright, Or of the sun’s mysterious sleep at night? They, in an instant, vanished all; A little chart portrays this earthly ball. Lo, all things are alike; discovery But proves the way for dull vacuity. Farewell to thee, O Fancy, dear, If plain, unvarnished truth appear! Thought more and more is still estranged from thee; Thy power so mighty once, will soon be gone, And our poor, wounded hearts be left forlorn.
But thou for these sweet dreams wast born, And the old sun upon thee shone, Delightful singer of the arms, and loves, That in an age far happier than our own, Men’s lives with pleasing errors filled. New hope of Italy! O towers, O caves, O ladies, cavaliers, O gardens, palaces! Amenites, At thought of which, the mind Is lost in thousand splendid reveries! Ye lovely fables, and ye thoughts grotesque, Now banished! And what to us remains? Now that the bloom from all things is removed? Alas, the sole, the certain thought, That all except our wretchedness, is nought.
Torquato, O Torquato, heaven to us The rich gift of thy genius gave, to thee Nought else but misery. Ill-starred Torquato, whom thy song, So sweet, could not console, Nor melt the ice, to which The genial current of thy soul Was turned, by private envy, princely hate; And then, by Love abandoned, life’s last dream! To thee, nought real seemed but nothingness, The world a dreary wilderness. Too late the honors came, so long deferred; And yet, to die was unto thee a gain. Who knows the evils of our mortal state, Demands but death, no garland asks, of Fate.
Return, return to us, Rise from thy silent, dreary tomb, And feast thine eyes on our distress, O thou, whose life was crowned with wretchedness! Far worse than what appeared to thee so sad And infamous, have all our lives become. Dear friend, who now would pity thee, When none save for himself hath thought or care? Who would not thy keen anguish folly call, When all things great and rare the name of folly bear? When envy, no, but worse than envy, far, Indifference pervades our rulers all? Ah, who would now, when we all think Of song so little, and so much of gain, A laurel for thy brow prepare again?
Ah, since thy day, there has appeared but one, Who has the fame of Italy redeemed: Too good for his vile age, he stands alone; One of the fierce Allobroges, Whose manly virtue was derived Direct from heavenly powers, Not from this dry, unfruitful earth of ours; Whence he alone, unarmed,— O matchless courage!—from the stage, Did war upon the ruthless tyrants wage; The only war, the only weapon left, Against the crimes and follies of the age. First, and alone, he took the field: None followed him; all else were cowards tame, Lost to all sense of honor, or of shame.
Devoured by anger and by grief, His spotless life he passed, Till from worse scenes released by death, at last. O my Victorio, this was not for thee The fitting age, or land. Great souls congenial times and climes demand. In mere repose we live content, And vulgar mediocrity; The wise man sinks, the mob ascends, Till all at last in one dread level ends. Go on, thou great discoverer! Revive the dead, since all the living sleep! Dead tongues of ancient heroes arm anew; Till this vile age a new life strive to win By noble deeds, or perish in its sin!
TO HIS SISTER PAOLINA,ON HER APPROACHING MARRIAGE.
Since now thou art about to leave Thy father’s quiet house, And all the phantoms and illusions dear, That heaven-born fancies round it weave, And to this lonely region lend their charm, Unto the dust and noise of life condemned, By destiny, soon wilt thou learn to see Our wretchedness and infamy, My sister dear, who, in these mournful times, Alas, wilt more unhappy souls bestow On our unhappy Italy! With strong examples strengthen thou their minds; For cruel fate propitious gales Hath e’er to virtue’s course denied, Nor in weak souls can purity reside.
Thy sons must either poor, or cowards be. Prefer them poor. It is the custom still. Desert and fortune never yet were friends; The strife between them never ends. Unhappy they, who in these evil days Are born when all things totter to their fall! But that we must to heaven leave. Be this, above all things, thy care, Thy children still to rear, As those who court not Fortune’s smiles, Nor playthings are of idle hope, or fear: And so the future age will call them blessed; For, in this slothful and deceitful world, The living virtue ever we despise, The dead we load with eulogies.
Women, to you our country looks, For the redemption of her fame: Ah, not unto our injury and shame, On the soft lustre of your eyes A power far mightier was conferred Than that of fire or sword! The wise and strong, in thought and act, are by Your judgment led; nay all who live Beneath the sun, to you still bend the knee. On you I call, then; answer me! Have you youth’s holy aspirations quenched? And are our natures broken, crushed by you? These sluggish minds, these low desires, These nerveless arms, these feeble knees. Say, say, are you to blame for these?