 | The bird and the bell, with other poems |  |
XXXVII.
For Italy, long pining, sad, and crushed,Has hurled her royal despots from the land.
Back to her wasted heart the blood has gushed.
Her wan cheek blooms, and her once nerveless hand
Guides with firm touch the purpose she has planned.
Thank God! thank generous France! the battle smoke
Lifts from her bloody fields. See, at her feet her yoke!
| The bird and the bell, with other poems | |