“The ages passed like the twelve birds ominous,
Descried by gaze of Romulus anciently:
They passed, I rose: thy Gods, proclaiming,
Italy, see! and thy buried heroes.
“Proud of her fortune, Brescia enshrinèd me,
Brescia the stalwart, Brescia the iron-girt,
Italia’s lioness, her vesture
Dyed in the blood of her land’s invaders.”
A large proportion of Carducci’s lyrics flow with more of liquid ease in more familiar metres, better adapted for popularity. This is especially the case with his impassioned addresses to the dead or to contemporaries who have won his admiration, and the poems which depict ordinary life, such as “A Dream in Summer,” “On a Saint Peter’s Eve,” and “The Mother,” whose apparently loose but really well-knit texture is admirably reproduced by his American translator Mr. Sewall, and which are such pieces as Walt Whitman might have written if he had been a poet in virtue of his art as well as of his nature. Perhaps none of the shorter pieces is more expressive of his profound humanity than his apotheosis of patient toil under the figure of “The Ox,” ably rendered by Mr. Sewall, a poem Egyptian in its grave massiveness and tranquil repose:
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.
Carducci has rendered his country much service as a literary critic, especially of the Renaissance, and of the Risorgimento of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. He is not subtle or profound, but puts forth unanswerably propositions dictated by the soundest common-sense. There is something Teutonic as well as Italian in his composition, and he recalls no precursor so much as the German poet Platen, an equal master of form; but Platen, though a real patriot, is more at home with any nation than his own. It is a chief glory of Carducci to have united an intensely patriotic spirit to a comprehensive cosmopolitanism. Though ranging far and wide to enrich the domestic literature with new metrical forms, he loves those in which the Italian genius has embodied itself from days of old, and is always ready to defend them against degenerate countrymen, no less than against unappreciative foreigners. Like Wordsworth, he has simultaneously vindicated and illustrated the sonnet:
Brief strain with much in little rife; whose tone,
As worlds untrodden rose upon his thought,
Dante touched lightly; that Petrarca sought,
Flower among flowers by gliding waters grown;
That from trump epical of Tasso blown
Pealed through his prison; that wert gravely fraught
With voice austere by him who marble fought
To free the spirit he divined in stone:—
To Æschylus new-born by Avon’s shore
Thou camest harbinger of Art, to be
A hidden cell for hidden sorrow’s store;
On thee smiled Milton and Camoens; thee,
His rout of lines unleashing with a roar,
Bavius blasphemes; the dearer thence to me.
Carducci’s example could not but create a school of poets, many of great merit, but most of whom stand to him more or less in the relation of disciples to a master. The chief exception is the only one who can claim, like Timotheus, to “divide the crown,” GABRIELE D’ANNUNZIO.
D’Annunzio (born 1863) is a second Marini, endowed with an even more brilliant genius, and better armed against besetting faults. It is terrible to think what synchronism with Marini might have made of him, but it has been his good fortune to have had Carducci’s example before his eyes, and his merit to have profited by it. At the same time his genius is so distinct from Carducci’s as to vindicate for him an independent position. To employ Coventry Patmore’s happy application of a passage in Zephaniah to the poetic art, D’Annunzio rather represents “Beauty,” and Carducci “Bands”; the note of the one is restraint, and that of the other is exuberance. D’Annunzio’s verse is not cast in bronze like Carducci’s, nor has he his rival’s splendid virility or his devotion to ideal interests; his affluence is nevertheless so well restrained by a natural instinct for form that it never, as with Marini, becomes riotous extravagance. Some of the metrical forms, indeed, which, influenced as may be surmised by Mr. Swinburne, he has endeavoured to introduce, seem ill adapted to the genius of the Italian language, though they would probably succeed well in English. But nothing can be more satisfactory than the form of his sonnets or of his ballad-romances, and he has enriched Italian poetry with one new form of great beauty, the rima nona, a happy compromise between the terse purity of the national octave and the rich harmony, like the chiming of many waters, of the English Spenserian stanza, which no foreign literature has yet succeeded in acclimatising. It is also to his honour that, while no writer is more partial to the employment of unusual words, commonly derived from science or natural history, the effect is that of brilliant mosaic without a mosaic’s rigidity, but soft and liquid as a glowing canvas.