O my own Italy! though words are vain
    The mortal wounds to close,
    Unnumber’d, that thy beauteous bosom stain,
    Yet may it soothe my pain
    To sigh forth Tyber’s woes,
    And Arno’s wrongs, as on Po’s sadden’d shore
    Sorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour. 
    Ruler of heaven!  By the all-pitying love
    That could thy Godhead move
    To dwell a lowly sojourner on earth,
    Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen land thine eye: 
    See, God of Charity! 
    From what light cause this cruel war has birth;
    And the hard hearts by savage discord steel’d,
    Thou, Father! from on high,
    Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield!

    Ye, to whose sovereign hands the fates confide
    Of this fair land the reins,—­
    (This land for which no pity wrings your breast)—­
    Why does the stranger’s sword her plains invest? 
    That her green fields be dyed,
    Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians’ veins? 
    Beguiled by error weak,
    Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast,
    Who love, or faith, in venal bosoms seek: 
    When throng’d your standards most,
    Ye are encompass’d most by hostile bands. 
    O hideous deluge gather’d in strange lands,
    That rushing down amain
    O’erwhelms our every native lovely plain! 
    Alas! if our own hands
    Have thus our weal betray’d, who shall our cause sustain?

    Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state,
    Rear her rude Alpine heights,
    A lofty rampart against German hate;
    But blind ambition, seeking his own ill,
    With ever restless will,
    To the pure gales contagion foul invites: 
    Within the same strait fold
    The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng,
    Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong: 
    And these,—­oh, shame avow’d!—­
    Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold: 
    Fame tells how Marius’ sword
    Erewhile their bosoms gored,—­
    Nor has Time’s hand aught blurr’d the record proud! 
    When they who, thirsting, stoop’d to quaff the flood,
    With the cool waters mix’d, drank of a comrade’s blood!

    Great Caesar’s name I pass, who o’er our plains
    Pour’d forth the ensanguin’d tide,
    Drawn by our own good swords from out their veins;
    But now—­nor know I what ill stars preside—­
    Heaven holds this land in hate! 
    To you the thanks!—­whose hands control her helm!—­
    You, whose rash feuds despoil
    Of all the beauteous earth the fairest realm! 
    Are ye impell’d by judgment, crime, or fate,
    To oppress the desolate? 
    From broken fortunes, and from humble toil,
    The hard-earn’d dole to wring,
    While from afar ye bring
    Dealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire? 
    In truth’s great cause I sing. 
    Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lay inspire.