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.