Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.

There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.

Jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse -- borne away with every breath!