Vincenzo Da Filicaja.
“Italia! Italia! O tu cui diè la sorte.”
Italia! O Italia! thou, so graced
With ill-starr’d beauty, which to thee hath been
A dower whose fatal splendour may be traced
In the deep-graven sorrows of thy mien;
Oh that more strength, or fewer charms were thine!
That those might fear thee more, or love thee less,
Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine,
Then pierce thee with the death-pang’s bitterness!
Not then would foreign hosts have drain’d the tide
Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed:
Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew’d,
Pour down; nor wouldst thou wield an alien brand,
And fight thy battles with the stranger’s hand,
Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued!