Still may thine olives with their tribute shine,
No subtle blight invade thy clust'ring vine;
O'er golden fields the graceful maize wave high,
Only thy fierce Vendetta droop and die!
Ay, let at last thy sunbeam's burning flood
Dry on thy hero-soil thy hero-blood!
Brave be thy sons, as still thy fathers were—
Pure as thy mountain-streams, thy daughters fair,
High rise thy granite-rocks—a strong defence,
'Twixt foreign manners and their innocence!