 |
|
|
|
|
|
 | The Italian sketch book |  |
THE
Italia, oh, Italia! thou who hast
The fatal gift of beauty, whích became
A funeral dower of present woes and past,
On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame.
Yet, Italy! through every other land
Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side;
Mother of arts! as once of arms; thy hand
Was then our guardian and is still our guide.
BY AN AMERICAN.
|
| The Italian sketch book | |