Italy! Italy! thou who'rt doomed to wear br The fatal gift of beauty and possess br The dower funest of infinite wretchedness br Written upon thy forehead by despair; br Ah! would that thou wert stronger or less fair, br That they might fear thee more or love thee less, br Who in the splendour of thy loveliness br Seem wasting, yet to mortal combat dare! br Then from the Alps I should not see descending br Such torrents of armed men, nor Gallic horde br Drinking the wave of Po, distained with gore, br Nor should I see thee girded with a sword br Not thine, and with the stranger's arm contending, br Victor or vanquished, slave for evermore.