List not the songs such poets sing: they know not me or mine;
Studded with cruel thorns for me each laurel wreath they twine.
A mournful queen I am, alas! crowned in another’s place—
The mighty One from whom my face hath won its look of grace.
I sit as a usurper where I fain would kneel and pray,
Crowned with Rome’s earthly circlet from her forehead stol’n away!
The world’s imperial mistress once, now queen of love and peace,
Holds she her life and liberty but as earth’s monarchs please?
Fain would they on her gracious brow my coronet have set,
Its lustre dimmed with Savoy’s loss, with Naples’ tears all wet!