In thought entranced, Alfieri wandered oft.
Indignant at his country, here he strayed
O’er Arno’s desert plain, and looked abroad
With silent longing on the field and sky:
And when no living aspect soothed his grief,
Turned to the voiceless dead; while on his brow
There sat the paleness, with the hope, of death.
With them he dwells for ever! Here his bones
Murmur a patriot’s love.
Oh, truly speaks