When in this stony book of Italy,
Instead of a phrase his name he merely wrought,
Of all his life the only trace to be.
Did he with a trembling hand engrave it here,
As if a tombstone in a steadfast rock,
Or rashly cut the words upon this block
As if a sad and lonely good-bye tear?
My Cicerone! Childish is thy face,
But ancient wisdom o’er thy forehead shines,
Through Roman gates I followed thee apace,