Beneath a hostile car—and lo! the weight
Of fetters, her imperial neck around!
Oh! that a stranger’s envious hands had wrought
This desolation! for I then would say,
“Vengeance, Italia!”—in the burning thought
Losing my grief: but ’tis th’ ignoble sway
Of vice hath bow’d thee! Discord, slothful ease,
Theirs is that victor car; thy tyrant lords are these.
FRANCESCO MARIA DE CONTI.
THE SHORE OF AFRICA.