Alessandro Pegolotti.
She that cast down the empires of the world,
And, in her proud triumphal course through Rome,
Dragg’d them, from freedom and dominion hurl’d,
Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o’ercome:
I see her now, dismantled of her state,
Spoil’d of her sceptre, crouching to the ground
Beneath a hostile car—and lo! the weight
Of fetters, her imperial neck around!
Oh! that a stranger’s envious hands had wrought
This desolation! for I then would say,
“Vengeance, Italia!”—in the burning thought
Losing my grief: but ’tis th’ ignoble sway
Of vice hath bow’d thee! Discord, slothful ease,
Theirs is that victor car; thy tyrant lords are these.