Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — To Italy

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