Italia, oh, Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty, which became A funeral dower of present woes and past, On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame. Yet, Italy! through every other land Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side; Mother of arts! as once of arms; thy hand Was then our guardian, and is still our guide. Second Edition-Enlarged. BOSTON: LIGHT & STEARNS, 1 CORNHILL. |