O Italy, I see the lonely towers,
The arches and the columns and the walls
Of bygone days. The glory and the steel
That girt our fathers I behold not. Now
Unarmed, thou show'st a naked breast, a brow
Undiademed. Ah me, what wounds, what blood!
How art thou fallen, O most beautiful
I cry to heaven, unto earth I cry:
Say, say, who brought her to so dire a pass?
Her arms are bound in chains; with scattered locks
And face unveiled, she sits disconsolate,
Forgotten, and her head between her knees
Hiding, she weeps. Ah, weep, my Italy,
Thou hast good cause, thou who wert born to rule,
Now fallen on so dark a destiny.
Were thy dim eyes two gushing founts of tears
They ne'er could quench thy sorrow and thy shame,
Who wert a queen, and art become a slave.
Who now doth speak of thee, remembering
Thy vaunted past, but saith: She once was great,
She is no more? Why? Why? Where is thy might,
Thine ancient valor, arms, and constancy?
Who hath unclasped thy sword? Who thee betrayed?
What subtle craft, what labor, or what power
Despoiled thee of thy mantle and thy crown?
How, when didst fall from majesty so low?
Will none defend thee, will none fight for thee
Among thy children? Arms, to arms! Alone
I'll fight for thee, I'll fall for thee alone,
And be my blood a brand to fire cold hearts.
Where are thy children? Noise of arms I hear,
Of chariots and of shouting and of drums:
In foreign lands thy sons are combating.
Attend, O Italy. I see afar
A swaying throng of horses and of men,
Whirling of smoke and dust, and in the midst,
As lightning streaks the cloud, a flash of blades.
Art thou not comforted? Thy tear-dimmed eyes
Upon th' uncertain battle canst not bend?
What moves thy youth to fight upon those fields?
Ye gods, for alien lands Italian steel
Is bared. Unhappy he who fighting falls,
Not for his native shores and children dear,
But for the stranger, slain by others' foe,
And dying cannot say: O sacred soil,
I give thee back the life thou gavest me.
Oh fortunate and blest those days of old
When for their country peoples thronged to die.
Be ye for ever honored and most praised,
O Thessalonian passes, where dark fate
To Persian arms allied proved powerless
Against a handful of intrepid souls.
Methinks your waves and plants, your very stones
And watching mountains with incessant voice
Proclaim how all that coast was covered thick
With those undaunted hosts that fell for Greece.
Then, wild with fear, Xerxes o'er Hellespont
Fled, for all time a spectacle and scorn.
Simonides with failing steps did climb
Anthela's mount, where that heroic band
Dying were freed from death, and all about
Gazing with streaming eyes at hills and sea,
Took up his lyre and sang: O blessed ye
Who bared your breasts unto the foe's sharp steel
For love of her who gave you to the light,
Whom Greece hath tested, and the world reveres.
What mighty love your youthful spirits moved
To face 'mid clash of arms such bitter doom?
O children, with what shining countenance
Was Death to you revealed, that smiling thus
Ye ran to him 'mid pain and wounds so sore?
It seemed ye went to dance and feasting gay,
Yet night awaited you, and Tartarus;
Nor child nor spouse stood by when on that shore,
Without a kiss, without a tear, ye died.
But for the Persian 'twas dread chastisement,
Undying anguish. For as 'mid a drove
Of bulls a lion plunging, now on one
Now on another leaps, with claws and teeth
Tearing their flesh, so 'mid the Persian hordes
Raged the horoic fury of the Greeks.
See horses prone and men; see broken tents
And chariots trip the vanquished in their flight.
And see among the foremost, wild-eyed, pale,
The tyrant. See how with barbaric blood
Encrimsoned, the pursuing heroes fall,
One after one, by wounds o'ercome at last.
Live, live, most blessed ones, while yet the world
Hath tongue and hand to blaze your glorious deed!
The stars, uprooted, shall be hurled from heaven
Into the deep, and their majestic fires
'Mid hissing ruin quenched, ere memory
Your image shall unclasp, or spurn your love.
Your tomb an altar is, whereto shall come.
Mothers, unto their children showing there
The shining traces of your blood. Behold,
O glorious ones, bowed on this hallowed ground,
I kiss these stones, this sod; may they be blest
And praised eternally from pole to pole.
Ah would that I were buried here with you,
And that this soil were sodden with my blood.
But since fate wills not that my dying eyes
Should close in battle for a land oppressed,
May the gods grant your poet's humble fame
Mingled with yours shall through the ages last.
The arches and the columns and the walls
Of bygone days. The glory and the steel
That girt our fathers I behold not. Now
Unarmed, thou show'st a naked breast, a brow
Undiademed. Ah me, what wounds, what blood!
How art thou fallen, O most beautiful
I cry to heaven, unto earth I cry:
Say, say, who brought her to so dire a pass?
Her arms are bound in chains; with scattered locks
And face unveiled, she sits disconsolate,
Forgotten, and her head between her knees
Hiding, she weeps. Ah, weep, my Italy,
Thou hast good cause, thou who wert born to rule,
Now fallen on so dark a destiny.
Were thy dim eyes two gushing founts of tears
They ne'er could quench thy sorrow and thy shame,
Who wert a queen, and art become a slave.
Who now doth speak of thee, remembering
Thy vaunted past, but saith: She once was great,
She is no more? Why? Why? Where is thy might,
Thine ancient valor, arms, and constancy?
Who hath unclasped thy sword? Who thee betrayed?
What subtle craft, what labor, or what power
Despoiled thee of thy mantle and thy crown?
How, when didst fall from majesty so low?
Will none defend thee, will none fight for thee
Among thy children? Arms, to arms! Alone
I'll fight for thee, I'll fall for thee alone,
And be my blood a brand to fire cold hearts.
Where are thy children? Noise of arms I hear,
Of chariots and of shouting and of drums:
In foreign lands thy sons are combating.
Attend, O Italy. I see afar
A swaying throng of horses and of men,
Whirling of smoke and dust, and in the midst,
As lightning streaks the cloud, a flash of blades.
Art thou not comforted? Thy tear-dimmed eyes
Upon th' uncertain battle canst not bend?
What moves thy youth to fight upon those fields?
Ye gods, for alien lands Italian steel
Is bared. Unhappy he who fighting falls,
Not for his native shores and children dear,
But for the stranger, slain by others' foe,
And dying cannot say: O sacred soil,
I give thee back the life thou gavest me.
Oh fortunate and blest those days of old
When for their country peoples thronged to die.
Be ye for ever honored and most praised,
O Thessalonian passes, where dark fate
To Persian arms allied proved powerless
Against a handful of intrepid souls.
Methinks your waves and plants, your very stones
And watching mountains with incessant voice
Proclaim how all that coast was covered thick
With those undaunted hosts that fell for Greece.
Then, wild with fear, Xerxes o'er Hellespont
Fled, for all time a spectacle and scorn.
Simonides with failing steps did climb
Anthela's mount, where that heroic band
Dying were freed from death, and all about
Gazing with streaming eyes at hills and sea,
Took up his lyre and sang: O blessed ye
Who bared your breasts unto the foe's sharp steel
For love of her who gave you to the light,
Whom Greece hath tested, and the world reveres.
What mighty love your youthful spirits moved
To face 'mid clash of arms such bitter doom?
O children, with what shining countenance
Was Death to you revealed, that smiling thus
Ye ran to him 'mid pain and wounds so sore?
It seemed ye went to dance and feasting gay,
Yet night awaited you, and Tartarus;
Nor child nor spouse stood by when on that shore,
Without a kiss, without a tear, ye died.
But for the Persian 'twas dread chastisement,
Undying anguish. For as 'mid a drove
Of bulls a lion plunging, now on one
Now on another leaps, with claws and teeth
Tearing their flesh, so 'mid the Persian hordes
Raged the horoic fury of the Greeks.
See horses prone and men; see broken tents
And chariots trip the vanquished in their flight.
And see among the foremost, wild-eyed, pale,
The tyrant. See how with barbaric blood
Encrimsoned, the pursuing heroes fall,
One after one, by wounds o'ercome at last.
Live, live, most blessed ones, while yet the world
Hath tongue and hand to blaze your glorious deed!
The stars, uprooted, shall be hurled from heaven
Into the deep, and their majestic fires
'Mid hissing ruin quenched, ere memory
Your image shall unclasp, or spurn your love.
Your tomb an altar is, whereto shall come.
Mothers, unto their children showing there
The shining traces of your blood. Behold,
O glorious ones, bowed on this hallowed ground,
I kiss these stones, this sod; may they be blest
And praised eternally from pole to pole.
Ah would that I were buried here with you,
And that this soil were sodden with my blood.
But since fate wills not that my dying eyes
Should close in battle for a land oppressed,
May the gods grant your poet's humble fame
Mingled with yours shall through the ages last.