Leopardi lived in Italy during the long contest between the Classic and Romantic schools, and it may be said that in him many of the leading ideas of both parties were reconciled. His literary form was as severe and sculpturesque as that of Alfieri himself, whilst the most subjective and introspective of the Romantic poets did not so much color the world with his own mental and spiritual hue as Leopardi. It is not plain whether he ever declared himself for one theory or the other. He was a contributor to the literary journal which the partisans of the Romantic School founded at Florence; but he was a man so weighed upon by his own sense of the futility and vanity of all things that he could have had little spirit for mere literary contentions. His admirers try hard to make out that he was positively and actively patriotic; and it is certain that in his earlier youth he disagreed with his father's conservative opinions, and despised the existing state of things; but later in life he satirized the aspirations and purposes of progress, though without sympathizing with those of reaction. The poem which his chief claim to classification with the poets militant of his time rests upon is that addressed “To Italy”. Those who have read even only a little of Leopardi have read it; and I must ask their patience with a version which drops the irregular rhyme of the piece for the sake of keeping its peculiar rhythm and measure. My native land, I see the walls and arches, The columns and the statues, and the lonely Towers of our ancestors, But not their glory, not The laurel and the steel that of old time Our great forefathers bore. Disarmèd now, Naked thou showest thy forehead and thy breast! O me, how many wounds, What bruises and what blood! How do I see thee, Thou loveliest Lady! Unto Heaven I cry, And to the world: “Say, say, Who brought her unto this?” To this and worse, For both her arms are loaded down with chains, So that, unveiled and with disheveled hair, She crouches all forgotten and forlorn, Hiding her beautiful face Between her knees, and weeps. Weep, weep, for well thou may'st, my Italy! Born, as thou wert, to conquest, Alike in evil and in prosperous sort! If thy sweet eyes were each a living stream, Thou could'st not weep enough For all thy sorrow and for all thy shame. For thou wast queen, and now thou art a slave. Who speaks of thee or writes, That thinking on thy glory in the past But says, “She was great once, but is no more.” Wherefore, oh, wherefore? Where is the ancient strength, The valor and the arms, and constancy? Who rent the sword from thee? Who hath betrayed thee? What art, or what toil, Or what o'erwhelming force, Hath stripped thy robe and golden wreath from thee? How did'st thou fall, and when, From such a height unto a depth so low?