Still, the source of this strange lamentation
Was the feeling that filled me of old;
Deep down, thus encircled and cold,
My heart lived and fluttered within;
Though wearied, my fancy yet summoned
Her vassals unchilled by the frost;
And sorrow for sorrow now lost
To sorrow herself seemed akin.

Umbra.

But soon in my bosom this sorrow,
Last vestige of feeling, was spent ;
The will and the strength to lament,
Withering, no more with me dwelt.
I sank down astounded, bewildered,
Comfort I knew not, nor sought;
As the dead, or as one distraught,
No pain, then, nor pleasure I felt.
Such was I-how little resembling
One who had nursed in his mind
All truth which the wise have divined,
All error that nobly can soar!
The swallow who twittered each morn
At my window, and sang the new day.
To my dull heart had nothing to say,
Now cold to the innermost core.

Nor spoke to me then pallid Autumn
In my sad home, nor evening's low bell;
The sun, in this darkness that fell,
Fled westerly hectic and pale.
In vain might fair Hesperus lead

Through the silence that circled me round;
In vain would the valley resound

To the chant of the lone nightingale.

And you, tender glances, so shyly

That start on soft errands, that rove
Charged with token or message of love—-
Love that for ever shall reign!

Thou too, little hand lightly laid,
Gentle promise of welcome, in mine-
Vainly those pupils would shine,
The touch and the promise were vain;
So deep was my stupor! Thus widowed
Of all that is sweetness and grace;
Thus placidly wretched, no trace

Of misery gloomed from my brow.

With fervency then had I longed for
Some ending, though death were the term;
But languid, o'erladen, infirm,

The courage to wish left me now.

"T was decrepitude, age without years,
The dregs of a life, nude and vile-
That sweet April, which others beguile
With illusions all Aprils renew!

Thus our springtime ineffable languished,
O my heart, thus we dragged out our days,
Inurned in a deathly amaze-

Those moments so fleeting and few!

Emergence. †

From this heaviness, heedless and dumb,
This entrancement more grievous than grief,
Who wakes me? Whence this relief,

This virtue that floods all within?
Soft sorrowings, flutterings, fancies,
Error that robes the bare sky,
You will not for ever deny

To my heart your incitements benign?
Perhaps 'tis the joyance of childhood
Reviving, sole light of my days?
Emotions I lost in the haze

That encompassed my spirit so long?
In the sky, in the rivulet's margin,
Wherever my glances may turn,

* This sounds anti-Byronic. Byron was not a favourite with our author It is curious that, with a similar theme, Leopardi should have chosen a measure similar to that employed by Byron in the following :

'I am ashes where once I was fire,
And the bard in my bosom is dead.
What I loved I now merely admire,

And my heart is as grey as my head.'

The poet here sings his revival, his reawakening, from the death-like leep into which he had fallen for many years. After long experience of odious reality, the illusions of early youth are recognised as such. The vanity of his former hopes is evident-and of all human hopes. He knows, moreover, that imagination and sentiment are unable to sustain in him the wish for, or delusion of, future happiness. He knows therefore that, recovering, he awakens to a life of sorrow. But is not pain better than tedium or insensibility? And the consciousness of having been made capable of this is a cause of pleasure to him,'-Alfredo Straccali, Notes to the 'Canti.'

Some sorrow or joy I discern;
The universe pipes a new song.

The woodland, once more, and the highland
Dwell with me-the shore and the plain !
My heart hears the brooklet again,
The sea whispers soft in my ear.

Who quells this cold cureless obstruction;
Who gives back the tears to my eyes?
Why hastens the earth in new guise
Before me thus changed to appear?
Perhaps, O poor heart, hope relenting
With a smile will turn even to thee.
Alas! never more shall I see
Smile that my grief can assuage.
The joy of delicious delusion
Is mine, Nature's sorrowing kiss!
Misfortune had quenched even this,
My sole, my supreme, heritage,

But annulled not; unvanquished by Fate,
Nor abased by calamity's might,

I shrank not nor quailed in the sight,
How hideous soever, of Truth.
My pleasant imaginings wander,
I know, from her impious facts;
That Nature, judged by her acts,
Shows neither pity nor ruth.
Unmindful of happiness she,

Her care but to keep us alive;

She preserves us to suffer and strive

And to nought but existence gives heed.

I know, among men, that compassion

For misery rarely is found,

That the wretch to his wretchedness bound

Goes despised and alone in his need;

That the wise and the good are ignored,

Virtue the scorn of our age,

Genius denied his poor wage,

The laurel long vigils have bought.

And you, trembling glances, once more,
That beam with a radiance divine,

In vain you resplendently shine;

No sparkle of love have you caught.

And yet he was able to write: Buoni amici e cordiali si trovano veramente nel mondo, e non sono rari.'

No inward affection, no kindness,
No tender emotion is there;

That white bosom has never a share
In the joy from true sympathy born.*
Thus fondness perceived in another
Is matter for jesting and jeers,

And fire that descends from the spheres
Requited with laughter and scorn.

Still, revived and apparent within me,
I feel my illusions once more;
Of her own tender joys yet unsure,
My bosom scarce heaves in surprise.
From thee, O my heart, this new virtue,
Existence regained, natal fire,

What comfort I yet may desire,

Solely from thee will arise.

Not to a spirit thus chastened,

Clear and pure, is the world, I well know;

Let Fortune and Nature both go;

And Beauty, now only a pain.

But if thou, O sad one, yet livest,

To thy part in affliction resigned,

Need I think her still cruel and unkind, †
Who gave me to breathe, not in vain?'

Of the similar crisis in his own mental history, John Stuart Mill gives an account in his Autobiography' (cap. v), as follows.

'It was in the autumn of 1826. I was in a dull state of nerves the state, I should think, in which converts to Methodism usually are, when smitten by their first "conviction of sin." In this frame of mind it occurred to me to put the question directly to myself: "Suppose that all your objects in life were realised; that all the changes in institutions and opinions which you are looking forward to could be completely effected at this very instant; would this be a great joy and happiness to you?" And an irrepressible self-consciousness distinctly answered, "No!" At this my heart sank

* See the letter printed above.

+ Fate. Probably his most conciliatory reference to this Power.

It is interesting to note that a very similar crisis occurred in the life of Tolstoi, after a long period of production, when he was about fifty years old. He says in his Confession' that, when he found himself suffering from this mortal depression, he asked himself questions very similar to that

within me; the whole foundation on which my life was constructed fell down. All my happiness was to have been found in the continual pursuit of this end. The end had ceased to charm, and how could there ever again be any interest in the means? I seemed to have nothing left to live for . . . and I became persuaded that my love of mankind and of excellence for its own sake had worn itself out. I sought no comfort by speaking to others of what I felt. . .

"I frequently asked if I could or if I was bound to go on living when life must be passed in this manner. I generally answered to myself that I did not think I could possibly bear it beyond a year. When, however, not more than half that duration of time had elapsed, a small ray of light broke in upon my gloom. I was reading accidentally Marmontel's Memoirs, and came to the passage which relates his father's death, the distressed position of the family, and the sudden inspiration by which he, then a mere boy, felt and made them feel that he would be everything to them. A vivid conception of the scene and its feelings came over me and I was moved to tears. From this moment my burden grew lighter. The oppression of the thought that all feeling was dead within me† was gone. . . . Relieved from my ever-present sense of irremediable wretchedness, I gradually found that the ordinary incidents of life could give me some pleasure, that I could again find enjoyment, not intense, but sufficient for cheerfulness, in sunshine and sky, ‡ in books, in conversation, in public affairs. Thus the cloud gradually drew off, and, though I had several relapses, I never again was as miserable as I had been.'

The first fruit of this mental rejuvenescence was the poem to Silvia, a cottage maiden in whom Leopardi discovered, after her death, a symbol of all that was fairest and happiest in his own life, the youthful hopes, dreams and aspirations, prematurely blighted, towards which he ever turns with regretful longing. What was the precise nature of his affection for her, or hers for him, is difficult

asked by Mill, e.g., ‘Suppose you are more famous than Shakespeare or Molière-what does it lead to? And I could find no reply at all.' He continues, 'I felt that what I had been standing on had broken down, and that I had nothing left under my feet. What I had lived by no longer

existed, and I had nothing left to live by.'

* Cf. Comfort I sought not nor found' ('Risorgimento '). + Cf. All feeling within me was dead' ('Risorgimento').

Cf. In the sky, in the rivulet's margin . . .

Some sorrow or joy I discern' ('Risorgimento').