Upon your song, O Heart of Italy!
Free and serene, in his reward unstinted,
The workman’s hand shall mould his rhythmic thought;
How candid to the keen-eyed gods’ appraisal
Shall be the work of Song’s great ardor wrought—
When our young land, reborn in Beauty’s image,
Unto the Morn of Prophecy shall come,
And every tower be raised with mirth and music,
And every harvest brought with singing home.