Oh! sweet as the harmony whispered about
The Night’s moon-beaming portal of exquisite Dreams.
’Though Beauty and Grandeur, magnificent clime!
Have walked o’er thy Vallies and Mountains sublime,
With a port as majestic—unfading as Time—
A death-pall is on Thee! The funeral glare
Of a grave-torch, Oh! Italy, gleams on the air!
Lo! the crimes of whole ages roll down on thy breast!
Hark! Hark to the fierce thunder-troops of the Storm!
Ah! soon shall they stamp on thy beautiful crest,