Filicaia

Hast thou not been the nations' queen, fair Italy! though now
Chance gives to them the diadem that once adorned thy brow?
Too beautiful for tyrant's rule, too proud for handmaid's duty —
Would thou hadst less of loveliness, or strength as well as beauty;

The fatal light of beauty bright with fell attraction shone,
Fatal to thee, for tyrants be the lovers thou hast won!
That forehead fair is doom'd to wear its shame's degrading proof,
And slavery's print in damning tint stamp'd by a despot's hoof!

Were strength and power, maiden! thy dower, soon should that robber-band,
That prowls unbid thy vines amid, fly scourg'd from off that land;
Nor wouldst thou fear yon foreigner, nor be condemned to see
Drink in the flow of classic Po barbarian cavalry.

Climate of art! thy sons depart to gild a Vandal's throne;
To battle led, their blood is shed in contests not their own; —
Mix'd with yon horde, go draw thy sword, nor ask what cause 'tis for:
Thy lot is cast — slave to the last! conquer'd or conqueror!