The fatal gift of beauty--"
Childe Harold, Cant: 4.
Oh! how I long to look upon thy face,
Land of the Lover and the Poet!—Thou
I've ever deemed must be a pleasant place
To them who at the shrine of ages bow,
Adoring every relic of the past
Which time hath spared, to wake our wonder
Thou hast been fair, and lovely to the last!
E'en now in desolation as thou art,
And as the shadow of what once thou wast,
There is no land beneath the sun like thee,
Oh thou delightful land of Italy!
Thou art the halo of the earth!—the heart
Finds very rapture in the thought of thee,
Oh thou delightful land! sweet sunny Italy!