Far from the myrtles which thy breeze hath fann’d,
My own bright Italy!
It is, it is thy breath,
Which stirs my soul e’en yet, as wavering flame
Is shaken by the wind,—in life and death
Still trembling, yet the same!
Oh! that love’s quenchless power
Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky,
And through thy groves its dying music shower,
Italy! Italy!