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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=359071" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On Dante's Monument, 1818</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though all the nations now<br>Peace gathers under her white wings,<br>The minds of Italy will ne'er be free<br>From the restraints of their old lethargy,<br>Till our ill-fated land cling fast<br>Unto the glorious memories of the Past.<br>Oh, lay it to thy heart, my Italy,<br>Fit honor to thy dead to pay;<br>For, ah, their like walk not thy streets to-day!<br>Nor is there one whom thou canst reverence!<br>Turn, turn, my country, and behold<br>That noble band of heroes old,<br>And weep, and on thyself thy anger vent,<br>For without anger, grief is impotent:<br>Oh, turn, and rouse thyself for shame,<br>Blush at the thought of sires so great,<br>Of children so degenerate!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alien in mien, in genius, and in speech,<br>The eager guest from far<br>Went searching through the Tuscan soil to find<br>Where he reposed, whose verse sublime<br>Might fitly rank with Homer's lofty rhyme;<br>And oh! to our disgrace he heard<br>Not only that, e'er since his dying day,<br>In other soil his bones in exile lay,<br>But not a stone within thy walls was reared<br>To him, O Florence, whose renown<br>Caused thee to be by all the world revered.<br>Thanks to the brave, the generous band,<br>Whose timely labor from our land<br>Will this sad, shameful stain remove!<br>A noble task is yours,<br>And every breast with kindred zeal hath fired,<br>That is by love of Italy inspired.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">May love of Italy inspire you still,<br>Poor mother, sad and lone,<br>To whom no pity now<br>In any breast is shown,<br>Now, that to golden days the evil days succeed.<br>May pity still, ye children dear,<br>Your hearts unite, your labors crown,<br>And grief and anger at her cruel pain,<br>As on her cheeks and veil the hot tears rain!<br>But how can I, in speech or song,<br>Your praises fitly sing,<br>To whose mature and careful thought,<br>The work superb, in your proud task achieved,<br>Will fame immortal bring?<br>What notes of cheer can I now send to you,<br>That may unto your ardent souls appeal,<br>And add new fervor to your zeal?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Your lofty theme will inspiration give,<br>And its sharp thorns within your bosoms lodge.<br>Who can describe the whirlwind and the storm<br>Of your deep anger, and your deeper love?<br>Who can your wonder-stricken looks portray,<br>The lightning in your eyes that gleams?<br>What mortal tongue can such celestial themes<br>In language fit describe?<br>Away ye souls, profane, away!<br>What tears will o'er this marble stone be shed!<br>How can it fall? How fall your fame sublime,<br>A victim to the envious tooth of Time?<br>O ye, that can alleviate our woes,<br>Sole comfort of this wretched land,<br>Live ever, ye dear Arts divine,<br>Amid the ruins of our fallen state,<br>The glories of the past to celebrate!<br>I, too, who wish to pay<br>Due honor to our grieving mother, bring<br>Of song my humble offering,<br>As here I sit, and listen, where<br>Your chisel life unto the marble gives.<br>O thou, illustrious sire of Tuscan song,<br>If tidings e'er of earthly things,<br>Of _her_, whom thou hast placed so high,<br>Could reach your mansions in the sky,<br>I know, thou for thyself no joy wouldst feel,<br>For, with thy fame compared,<br>Renowned in every land,<br>Our bronze and marble are as wax and sand;<br>If thee we _have_ forgotten, _can_ forget,<br>May suffering still follow suffering,<br>And may thy race to all the world unknown,<br>In endless sorrows weep and moan.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou for thyself no joy wouldst feel,<br>But for thy native land,<br>If the example of their sires<br>Could in the cold and sluggish sons<br>Renew once more the ancient fires,<br>That they might lift their heads in pride again.<br>Alas, with what protracted sufferings<br>Thou seest her afflicted, that, e'en then<br>Did seem to know no end,<br>When thou anew didst unto Paradise ascend!<br>Reduced so low, that, as thou seest her now,<br>She then a happy Queen appeared.<br>Such misery her heart doth grieve,<br>As, seeing, thou canst not thy eyes believe.<br>And oh, the last, most bitter blow of all,<br>When on the ground, as she in anguish lay,<br>It seemed, indeed, thy country's dying day!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O happy thou, whom Fate did not condemn<br>To live amid such horrors; who<br>Italian wives didst not behold<br>By ruffian troops embraced;<br>Nor cities plundered, fields laid waste<br>By hostile spear, and foreign rage;<br>Nor works divine of genius borne away<br>In sad captivity, beyond the Alps,<br>The roads encumbered with the precious prey;<br>Nor foreign rulers' insolence and pride;<br>Nor didst insulting voices hear,<br>Amidst the sound of chains and whips,<br>The sacred name of Liberty deride.<br>Who suffers not? Oh! at these wretches' hands,<br>What have we not endured?<br>From what unholy deed have they refrained?<br>What temple, altar, have they not profaned?<br>Why have we fallen on such evil times?<br>Why didst thou give us birth, or why<br>No sooner suffer us to die,<br>O cruel Fate? We, who have seen<br>Our wretched country so betrayed,<br>The handmaid, slave of impious strangers made,<br>And of her ancient virtues all bereft;<br>Yet could no aid or comfort give.<br>Or ray of hope, that might relieve<br>The anguish of her soul.<br>Alas, my blood has not been shed for thee,<br>My country dear! Nor have I died<br>That thou mightst live!<br>My heart with anger and with pity bleeds.<br>Ah, bitter thought! Thy children fought and fell;<br>But not for dying Italy, ah, no,<br>But in the service of her cruel foe!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Father, if this enrage thee not,<br>How changed art thou from what thou wast on earth!<br>On Russia's plains, so bleak and desolate,<br>They died, the sons of Italy;<br>Ah, well deserving of a better fate!<br>In cruel war with men, with beasts,<br>The elements! In heaps they strewed the ground;<br>Half-clad, emaciated, stained with blood,<br>A bed of ice for their sick frames they found.<br>Then, when the parting hour drew near,<br>In fond remembrance of that mother dear,<br>They cried: 'Oh had we fallen by the foeman's hand,<br>And not the victims of the clouds and storms,<br>And for _thy_ good, our native land!<br>Now, far from thee, and in the bloom of youth,<br>Unknown to all, we yield our parting breath,<br>And die for _her_, who caused our country's death!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The northern desert and the whispering groves,<br>Sole witnesses of their lament,<br>As thus they passed away!<br>And their neglected corpses, as they lay<br>Upon that horrid sea of snow exposed,<br>Were by the beasts consumed;<br>The memories of the brave and good,<br>And of the coward and the vile,<br>Unto the same oblivion doomed!<br>Dear souls, though infinite your wretchedness,<br>Rest, rest in peace! And yet what peace is yours,<br>Who can no comfort ever know<br>While Time endures!<br>Rest in the depths of your unmeasured woe,<br>O ye, _her_ children true,<br>Whose fate alone with hers may vie,<br>In endless, hopeless misery!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But she rebukes you not,<br>Ah, no, but these alone,<br>Who forced you with her to contend;<br>And still her bitter tears she blends with yours,<br>In wretchedness that knows no end.<br>Oh that some pity in the heart were born,<br>For her, who hath all other glories won,<br>Of one, who from this dark, profound abyss,<br>Her weak and weary feet could guide!<br>Thou glorious shade, oh! say,<br>Does no one love thy Italy?<br>Say, is the flame that kindled thee extinct?<br>And will that myrtle never bloom again,<br>That hath so long consoled us in our pain?<br>Must all our garlands wither in the dust?<br>And shall we a redeemer never see,<br>Who may, in part, at least, resemble thee?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Are we forever lost?<br>Is there no limit to our shame?<br>I, while I live, will never cease to cry:<br>'Degenerate race, think of thy ancestry!<br>Behold these ruins vast,<br>These pictures, statues, temples, poems grand!<br>Think of the glories of thy native land!<br>If they thy soul cannot inspire or warn,<br>Why linger here? Arise! Begone!<br>This holy ground must not be thus defiled,<br>And must no shelter give<br>Unto the coward and the slave!<br>Far better were the silence of the grave!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Count+Giacomo+Leopardi">Count Giacomo Leopardi</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=359071" data-title="On Dante's Monument, 1818 de Count Giacomo Leopardi" data-description="Though all the nations now
Peace gathers under her white wings,
The minds of Italy will ne'er be free
From the restraints of their old lethargy,
Till our ill-fated land cling fast
Unto the glorious memories of the Past.
Oh, lay it to thy heart, my..."></div>
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