FROM THE ITALIAN OF VINCENZO DA FILICAIA .

Italia! O Italia! whom the hand
Of Heaven arrayed in beauty, — fatal dower,
For which unnumbered wrongs afflict thy land
And on thy furrowed brow the wasting power
Has stamped his burning characters of shame;
Less sweet and fair, but more robust and brave,
Thou hadst not been of lords the lovely slave,
Who seek thee with an all-devouring flame,
Pouring their blood in strife, and wasting thine.
O, wert thou braver and less fair, no more
Should I behold the armed torrents roar
Down those tall Alps, where snows eternal shine;
Nor see again those tireless hounds of war,
The French, their limbs with battle heated, lave
In Po or Lodi's gore-impurpled wave;
Nor see thee, chained to some proud nation's car,
And girt with foreign armor, idly brave,
Beneath the Gaul or Gothic despot's star,
For ever, conqueror or conquered, slave.