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.