To Italy. (From Filicaja)

Italy! Italy! thou who'rt doomed to wear The fatal gift of beauty and possess The dower funest of infinite wretchedness Written upon thy forehead by despair; Ah! would that thou wert stronger or less fair, That they might fear thee more or love thee less, Who in the splendour of thy loveliness Seem wasting, yet to mortal combat dare! Then from the Alps I should not see descending Such torrents of armed men, nor Gallic horde Drinking the wave of Po, distained with gore, Nor should I see thee girded with a sword Not thine, and with the stranger's arm contending, Victor or vanquished, slave for evermore.