A thousand godsent melodies found birth,
And, flower-like, sprang from thine angelic mind,
To lull the unceasing sorrow of mankind,
And charm the changeless ennui of the earth.

Then, when the soul was moved, thy reaper, Mirth,
Usurped dark Melancholy's throne, and twined
Light sheaves of song, as buoyant as the wind,
Turning the dross of care to golden worth!

Thy deathless Fame before no tomb shall bow!
No grave can close upon thy matchless art!
Cherished, supreme in palace as in mart,
In proud, immortal calm thou standest now,
With all the grace of Italy in thy heart,
With all the glory of Song upon thy brow!