THOU art the world's desired, the golden fleece
Of Time's adventurers faring down to Hell,
But Helen's self dwelt not so far from peace
Nor so beset since lofty Ilium fell.
Tyrants would pluck thee as men pluck a rose,
Carthage and Greece, the Vandal and the Goth:
Now more are added to thy many foes
From East and West, ay, thou hast suffered both.
Greece was enslaved, and Carthage is but dust,
But thou art living, maugre all thy scars,
To bear fresh wounds of rapine and of lust,
Immortal victim of unnumbered wars.
Nor shalt thou cease until we cease to be
Whose hearts are thine, belovèd Italy.
"I WILL die cheering, if I needs must die;
So shall my last breath write upon my lips
Viva Italia! when my spirit slips
Down the great darkness from the mountain sky;
And those who shall behold me where I lie
Shall murmur: 'Look, you! how his spirit dips
From glory into glory! the eclipse
Of death is vanquished! Lo, his victor-cry!'
"Live, thou, upon my lips, Italia mine,
The sacred death-cry of my frozen clay!
Let thy dear light from my dead body shine
And to the passer-by thy message say:
'Ecco! though heaven has made my skies divine,
My sons' love sanctifies my soil for aye!'"