Memoirs of Anne C. L. Botta/Viva Italia!

          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.