In alien courts, midst lewd society;
At times without a shelter for the head
A price was set on! Centuries follow this,
When thou shalt think upon thy Dante dead,
And his poor tomb; which ever the abyss
Of waves shall moan to: Yes, my Florence, then,
When bright Italia, ’neath the brutal kiss
Of the barbarian ravishers, shall plain,
In useless struggles, growing faint to death!
How shalt thou wish thy Dante back again!