VIII. "Inno ai Patriarchi." This hymn also has the misfortune of not pleasing Montefredini. Still, it contains passages wonderfully picturesque, and is a worthy fruit of our poet's intimate acquaintance with Hebrew literature.
IX. "Ultimo Canto di Saffo." As in the monologue of Brutus, Leopardi uttered his own views of life; so in the "Last Song of Sappho" he expresses how keenly he felt his physical afflictions. How august and calm is the opening, and how beautifully the poet blends his sorrow with the description of Nature! The third stanza rises to Æschylean sublimity. Two spirits seem to be battling for mastery over the poet—the one pronouncing, the other lamenting, his doom. Most beautiful is the effect achieved by the mysterious pathos of the conclusion.
X. "Il Primo Amore." After such a poem we almost doubt whether we shall read further—whether any other poem can be read after that supreme effort. But the "Primo Amore," though different in kind, is, as poetry, equally valuable. The former piece astonished us with its sublimity; this delights us with its delicacy. For depth of feeling and reality of narration I know no love poem that surpasses it; but here and there we find some obscurity and flatness in the diction.
XI. "Il Passero Solitario." Not one of the least admirable qualities of our poet is the great variety of expression he commands. The five patriotic poems may be considered as producing one effect; but each of the following is quite distinct from its predecessor, and the "Passero Solitario" is again quite different from them all. It is also remarkable as the first poem in his later manner—that of the "Canto Notturno" and the "Ginestra." It is an idyl such as Theocritus, or, rather, Wordsworth, might have written. The gloom is past, the despair at rest, a gentle pensiveness alone remains. The picture of the setting sun:
"Che tra lontani monti,
Dopo il giorno sereno,
Cadendo si dilegua, e par che dica
Che la beata gioventù vien meno,"
always seemed to me the most perfect instance of subjective colouring of nature in the whole range of poetry.
XII. "L'Infinito." This little gem concentrates in a few lines the lustre of the richest poetry. The more we examine it, the more we admire.
XIII. "La Sera del Dè di Festa." Though not equal to its four immediate predecessors, I think this poem worthy of high admiration for the delicacy and rapidity of its transitions. It is wonderful to observe with what ease the poet rises from simplicity to sublimity, and returns again to simplicity. What perfection of art and what discrimination of style!
XIV. "Alla Luna." A more tender sigh was never breathed in song than here. I wish I could have done justice to the exquisite lines: