He mused aloud, Oh! Italy! Land of the chivalric, the free! Bruce may of Scotland tune his lyre. But thee alone, can’st me inspire. Birthplace of beauty! never more Shall I behold thy vine-clad shore; The sward where I in childhood play’d⁠— The haunts deep in the forest shade⁠— The place where, mould’ring in decay, The ashes of a sire lay.

Why did I leave thee? As spring flowers Return no more through summer hours When once they blossom, bear and die, No more will bloom neath sultry sky; So heart of man when hopes have fled, And love lies buried with the dead, No second spring time sends one ray To cheer his path through life’s dark day; Hope’s blossoms like the early dew Once passed away, naught can renew.