Chapter I

Italia, seated by the sapphire sea,
Crooning of summers rich from long ago,
Dreamer mid dreams, thy peerless face aglow
With rare romance and passionate poesy;
Hath time's delirium taken even thee,
Mother of Petrarch, Raphael, Angelo?
And dost thou purblind speed to weltering woe,
Dead to the wonder that was _Italy_?

Farewell thy peace, farewell thy pride, farewell
The roseate rapture of the radiant years.
Thy breast shall nourish sorrows, and thy fears
Shall haunt the olives and the sunset bell;
Ah, thou shalt sigh for Francis and his cell,
And beat with Dante to the bourn of tears.