'Twas Italy herself that chain'd her child!
Mourn'st thou my country's aspect—waste tho' fair—
Harbours deserted, meadow-lands left bare,
Ivy-clothed buildings falling to decay?
Be sure that Genoa has there held sway!
Hear'st thou the mandoline by yonder sea,
Blend with the solemn Dirge's melody?
Seem the chords struck by sorrow and by pain?
Be sure that Genoa awoke the strain!
Echo the mountains to the rifle's crack,