Italia, in thy bleeding heart
I thought e'en hope was dead; That from thy scarred and prostrate form The spark of life had fled.
I thought, as memory's sunset glow
Its radiance o'er thee cast, That all thy glory and thy fame Were buried in the past.
Twice Mistress of the world, I thought
Thy star had set in gloom; That all thy shrines and monuments Were but thy spirit's tomb---
The mausoleum of the world, Where Art her spoils might keep; Where pilgrims from all shrines might come, To wonder and to weep.
But from thy deathlike slumber now, In joy I see thee wake And over thy long shrouded sky Behold the morning break.
Along the Alps and Apennines
Runs an electric thrill; A golden splendor lights once more Each storied vale and hill.
And hopes, bright as thy sunny skies, Are o'er thy future cast; The future that upon thee beams, As glorious as thy past.