Italia! Oh Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty, which became A funeral dower of present woes and past, On thy sweet brow is sorrow plow'd by shame, And annals graved in characters of flame. Oh, God! that thou wert in thy nakedness Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress; Then might'st thou more appal, or less desired, Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored For thy destructive charms; then, still untired, Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd Down the steep Alps; nor would the hostile horde Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword Be thy sad weapon of defense, and so Victor or vanquished, thou the slave of friend or foe. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DAT GAL O' MINE by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE OLD VICARAGE, GRANTCHESTER by RUPERT BROOKE A FOREST HYMN by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT AT ONE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE PSALM 65 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE THE MASQUERADE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |