Because our people
sheltering under the white wing of peace,
will never see the Italian spirit freed
from the bonds of ancient sleep
until this unhappy land returns
to the example set by her early days,
take care, O Italy,
to honour those past, since you
are widowed of such men today,
when there’s none worthy of honour.
Turn, and gaze, O my homeland,
at that vast crowd of immortals,
and weep, and be scornful of yourself,
since grief without scorn is foolish now.
Turn, and be ashamed, and rouse yourself,
and spur yourself on
by thinking of our ancestors, our children.

      The eager visitor, foreign in looks
and understanding and speech, would
indeed search the soil
of Tuscany to find
where that poet lies through whose verse
Homer is not unique.
And he would learn, ah shame,
not only that his ashes and naked bone
are still exiled,
after their burial, in foreign earth,
but there is not a stone to him,
for whose virtues all the world honours you,
Florence, within your walls.
Oh you compassionate ones, through whom
such sad and base dishonour will be erased!
Noble, generous ones, you’ve undertaken a fine labour,
and your love will be repaid,
by those whom love of Italy inspires.

      Love of Italy: oh dear friends,
may love of this wretched land spur you on,
she, towards whom loyalty now
is dead in every heart, so that the sky
grants us bitter days after fair ones.
Oh, my sons, may pity, grief and anger
at the pain that bathes
her cheeks and veil, give you courage
and crown your efforts.
What words or song are appropriate
for you, who give not only true care and thought,
but labour, and display the eternal merit
of artistry and the hand’s skill and virtue,
in this sweet enterprise?
What verses can I send you that might have
the power to kindle fresh light
in your heart and burning spirit?

      The great subject will inspire you,
a blade to prick and pierce your breast.
Who could describe the tide and storm
of your fury or your deep emotions?
Who could paint your dazed expression,
the lightning of your eyes?
How could a mortal voice capture
the measure of divine things?
‘Be far away, profanity, far from me’. Oh
Italy, what tears have been denied a noble monument!
How can it die, how or when
can your glory be erased by time?
O, dear divine arts, ever-living:
you, by whom our wrongs are sweetened,
a solace to our unfortunate race,
intent on honouring Italian virtue
among the ruins of Italy.

      See, I also want
to honour our grieving mother:
I bring what I can
joining my song to your work,
seated where your chisel gives life to marble.
O glorious father of Tuscan verse,
if news of things on earth,
of her you raised so high,
ever reaches your shores,
I know you feel no joy for yourself,
since bronze and marble are less enduring
than wax and sand, compared with the fame
you left among us: and if you’ve ever
been, or shall be, absent from our minds,
I hope our ills will grow, if they can grow,
and your people weep forever
at a wholly darkened world.

      But you will be happy, not for yourself,
but for your poor country, if ever
the example of her ancestors
rouses her sick and slumbering sons
with such virtue that they raise their heads a moment.
Ah, what long torment you see
afflicting her, who was so troubled
at saying farewell to you
when you rose again to Paradise!
She must seem so abased to you today
who was a fortunate and royal lady then.
She’s so wretched now
that, stunned, you can’t believe it.
I’m silent about other enemies and sorrows,
but not the most recent and the cruellest,
through which your country has seen
the depths of night touch her threshold.

      Blessed are you, fated
not to live through such horrors,
who have not seen Italian women
in the arms of barbarous soldiers:
not seen enemy weapons in foreign fury
sack, and lay waste, town and country:
not seen divine works of Italian skill
dragged to servitude beyond the Alps,
trains of wagons filling roads of grief:
the harsh gestures and the proud commands:
not heard the insults, and the evil voice
of freedom that delivers them,
among the noise of chains and whips.
Who did not grieve? What did not suffer?
What was left untouched by those felons?
What temple, or altar, or crime?

      Why were such perverse times ours?
Why were we destined to be born, or
why were we not destined to die first,
bitter fate? We’ve been forced to see
our country made servant, made slave,
her virtue eroded
by the biting file, with no aid
and no comfort given us
to ease at all the pitiless ills
that tore her. Ah, dear one,
we have not given our blood,
our life for you: and I am not
dead of your cruel fate.
There is anger and pity in our hearts:
many of us have fought, died
but not for dying Italy,
no: for her oppressors.

      Dante, if you do not feel scorn,
you must have altered from what you were
on earth. Ah, worthy
of a better death, Italians lay dying
on the foul Russian plains, and air, sky,
men and beasts made fierce war on them.
They fell, squadron after squadron,
half-clothed, bloodstained, exhausted,
the ice the only sheet for their bodies.
Then, drawing their last breath,
remembering their longed-for mother,
said: ‘Oh if we’d been conquered by steel,
and not by cloud and wind, but for you,
our homeland. See, we are far from you,
when time should be smiling sweetly on us,
ignored by everyone,
dying for those who are destroying you.

      The northern wastes, the hissing woods,
were witness to their sorrows.
They reached such a pass
the abandoned corpses, unburied,
on the dread ocean of snow,
were torn apart by wild creatures,
and the names of the noble and the brave,
will always be lost among those
of the cowardly and base. Dear spirits,
rest in peace, though your misfortune
is eternal: and may it be your solace
that you will have no solace
in this or any future age.
Sleep in the clasp of your immense
affliction, o true sons of her
whose supreme hurt
only your hurt can equal.

      Your country does not complain
of you, but those who sent you
to war against her,
so that she weeps most bitterly
and confounds her tears with yours.
Oh that pity for her who dims
all others’ glory,
might be born in the heart of one
who might raise her, dull and weary,
from so dark and deep
a chasm! O glorious spirit,
say: is love for your Italy dead?
say: is the fire that burned you quenched?
say: will the myrtle never be renewed
that eased our troubles for so long?
Will our wreaths be scattered on the earth?
Will no one ever rise
to equal you at all?

      Are we lost forever? Is our
shame without limits?
While I have life in me I’ll cry:
‘Turn to your ancestors, you broken branches:
gaze at these ruins,
words and paintings, marbles, temples:
think what earth you tread: and if the light
of these examples does not stir you,
why linger? Rise and go.
This seedbed, this school of great spirits
is no place for such decayed morals:
if she’s filled with cowards,
she were better widowed and alone.’