VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.
Italia, Italia! O tu cui feo la sorte, &c.
Italia! thou, by lavish nature grac'd
With ill-starr'd beauty, which to thee hath been
A fatal dowry, whose effects are trac'd
In the deep sorrows, graven on thy mien;
Oh! that more strength, or fewer charms were thine,
That those might fear thee more, or love thee less,
Who seem to worship at thy Beauty's shrine,
Then leave thee to the death-pang's bitterness!
Not then would foreign herds have drain'd the tide,
Of that Eridanus, thy blood hath dyed,
Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew'd
Pour down; nor would'st thou wield an alien brand,
Nor fight thy battles with the stranger's hand,
Still doom d to serve, subduing, or subdued.
