Leopardi's malady was such that when he did not positively suffer he had still the memory of pain, and he was oppressed with a dreary ennui, from which he could not escape. Death, oblivion, annihilation, are the thoughts upon which he broods, and which fill his verse. The passing color of other men's minds is the prevailing cast of his, and he, probably with far more sincerity than any other poet, nursed his despair in such utterances as this: TO HIMSELF. Now thou shalt rest forever, O weary heart! The last deceit is ended, For I believed myself immortal. Cherished Hopes, and beloved delusions, And longings to be deluded,--all are perished! Rest thee forever! Oh, greatly, Heart, hast thou palpitated. There is nothing Worthy to move thee more, nor is earth worthy Thy sighs. For life is only Bitterness and vexation; earth is only A heap of dust. So rest thee! Despair for the last time. To our race Fortune Never gave any gift but death. Disdain, then, Thyself and Nature and the Power Occultly reigning to the common ruin: Scorn, heart, the infinite emptiness of all things! Nature was so cruel a stepmother to this man that he could see nothing but harm even in her apparent beneficence, and his verse repeats again and again his dark mistrust of the very loveliness which so keenly delights his sense. One of his early poems, called “The Quiet after the Storm”, strikes the key in which nearly all his songs are pitched. The observation of nature is very sweet and honest, and I cannot see that the philosophy in its perversion of the relations of physical and spiritual facts is less mature than that of his later work: it is a philosophy of which the first conception cannot well differ from the final expression. ... See yon blue sky that breaks The clouds above the mountain in the west! The fields disclose themselves, And in the valley bright the river runs. All hearts are glad; on every side Arise the happy sounds Of toil begun anew. The workman, singing, to the threshold comes, With work in hand, to judge the sky, Still humid, and the damsel next, On his report, comes forth to brim her pail With the fresh-fallen rain. The noisy fruiterers From lane to lane resume Their customary cry. The sun looks out again, and smiles upon The houses and the hills. Windows and doors Are opened wide; and on the far-off road You hear the tinkling bells and rattling wheels Of travelers that set out upon their journey. Every heart is glad; So grateful and so sweet When is our life as now? * * * * *