And waste a joyless, sunless prime.
A branch lopped from the native tree
To wither where no eye may see
And reck its fallen destiny.
Genoa, to fly thy still-lov’d walls,
That hold to him the spell-bound halls,
Where dwelt his sires in days gone by
The guardian friends of liberty;
And where commingling now they lie
Beneath thy soft cerulean sky.