ITALY.

O, ITALY! land that the sunbeams love,—
Thou desolate land of song!

I would tune my lyre in some lonely grove,
Where visions of sadness throng:

I would tune my lyre to elegiac strains,
To sing o'er the ruins that cover thy plains.

There the goat wanders wild o'er the mossy rock,
And tramples the mouldy skull;

Or stands, in his dreams, on some ivied block,
Whose sculpture is worn and dull,

Perfuming his beard in the sweet wild flag,
That grows at the foot of the broken crag.

There the castle, and column, and broken arch,
Stand solemn in proud decay;

While years pass on, in their silent march

To the music that fountains play:

They stand where the light of the moon is shed,
Like tombstones of empires forever dead.

O, beautiful Italy! fallen child!

Frail creature of love and grace!

Thy mind, too, is ruined, thy heart runs wild,

In the arms of an indolent race.

Sweet lunatic, empress of nature and art,

Thou art weakened in mind, and shattered in heart!