Shall see our land its lot with virtue cast,
And virtuous souls virtue as friend appraising.
But now, from where the Alpine herds are grazing
To far Sicilian shore, in slumber fast
Like jealous nurse she lulls them to the last,
Lest they should wake and on those forms be gazing.
What worth to thee our feeble note of praise,
Only the people's lullaby to mar?
To thee but shame, to us but harm befalling!
O happy those who 'mid the din of war,