O ITALY, my fateful mistress-land,
That, like Delilah, won with deathful bliss
Each conquering foe who wooed thy wanton kiss,
And sheared thy lovers' strength with certain hand,
And gave them to Philistia's bonds of vice;
Smiling to see the strong limbs waste away,
The manly vigor crippled by decay,
Usurious years exact the minute's price.
Ah! when my great were greatest, ever glad,
I thanked them with the hope of nobler deeds.
Statesman and poet, painter, sculptor, knight,—
These my dear lovers were ere days grew sad,
And them I taught how mightily exceeds
All other love the love that holds God's light.