O my country, I see the walls, arches
columns, statues, lone
towers of our ancestors,
but I do not see the glory,
I do not see the iron and the laurel in which
our forefathers were clasped. Now, defenceless,
you show your naked breast and brow.
Ah, how wounded,
what blood and bruises! Oh how I see you
loveliest of ladies! I ask the sky
and the earth: tell me, tell me:
who reduced her to this? And worse,
imprisoned both her arms in chains:
so with loosened hair, without a veil,
she sits on the ground, neglected, disconsolate,
hiding her face
between her knees, and weeping.
Weep, my Italy, with good reason,
you, born to outdo nations,
in good fortune and in ill.

      If your eyes were two living fountains
your weeping would be unequal
to your hurt and your disgrace:
once a lady, now you’re a poor servant.
Who can speak or write of you,
remembering your past glories,
and not say: ‘Once great, you are so no longer’?
Why? Why? Where is the ancient power,
where the weapons, courage, and endurance?
Who lowered your sword?
Who betrayed you? What art or effort
or superior force
stripped you of your cloak and laurel wreath?
How did you fall, and when,
from such heights to such depths?
Does no one fight for you? Not one
of your own defend you? To arms, arms: I alone
I’ll fight, I’ll fall, alone.
Heaven, grant that my blood
might set Italian hearts on fire.

      Where are your sons? I hear the sound of weapons
and the wagons, and the voices, and the drums:
your sons are fighting
on a foreign field.
Listen, Italy: listen. I see, oh, around me,
the swell of troops and horsemen,
smoke, dust, the glitter of swords,
like lightning in the mist.
Surely you’re neither comforted nor willing for
your trembling sight to witness so dubious a fate?
Why should the youth of Italy
fight in such fields? O powers,
that Italians should fight for another country.
O wretch, lost in war,
not for his homeland and a loyal wife,
and beloved sons,
but at the hands of another’s enemies,
for another’s race: who cannot say in dying:
‘Dear land of my birth, see,
how I render the life you gave me.’

      Oh blessed, and dear and fortunate
those ancient days when our people
rushed to die in ranks for their country:
And you, O narrow pass,
honoured and glorious for ever,
where Persia and fate were not strong enough
for a few brave and generous spirits!
I think your grass and stone and waves
and mountains, tell the passer-by
with indistinct voices
how the unconquered ranks of corpses
sacrificed for Greece
covered all that shore.
Then Xerxes, cruel and cowardly,
fled over the Hellespont
to be mocked to the last generation:
and Simonides climbed
the hill of Antela, where the sacred band
in dying made themselves deathless,
to gaze on the earth and sea and sky.

      And both cheeks wet with tears,
with beating heart, and stumbling feet,
he took his lyre in his hand:
‘You, most blessed of all,
who each offered yourself to the enemy lance,
for love of her who gave you to the light,
you the Greeks revered, the world admired,
what was that love so great that led
young men to war and danger,
what love drew them to their bitter fate?
How, sons, could you find such joy,
in that last moment, when smiling
you rushed to the harsh, sad pass?
Each of you seemed like one who goes to dance
not die, or goes to a glorious feast:
but dark Tartarus awaited
you, and the dread waves:
no wife or child accompanied you
when you died, on that cruel shore,
without kisses, without grief.

      But not without deep hurt to the Persians,
and eternal anguish.
Like a lion in a herd of bulls
that leaps on the back of one, and tears
its back with its teeth,
and bites its flanks or thighs,
so the anger and courage of Greek hearts
raged amongst the Persian ranks.
See the horses and riders levelled,
see where the shattered tents and wagons
block the flight of the defeated,
and the tyrant, pale, escaping,
runs with the leaders:
see how the Greek heroes drenched
and stained with barbarous blood,
bringing infinite grief to the Persians,
fall one against the other, gradually
defeated by their wounds. Oh live, live,
you blessed ones,
while the world can speak and write.

      The stars stripped from the sky, falling to the sea,
will sooner be drowned, hissing, in the deep,
than our love for you
be past and done.
Your tomb’s an altar: where the mothers
come to show their little ones the glorious
traces of your blood. See how I bend,
O blessed ones, to the soil,
and kiss the turf and stones,
that will be praised, famous for ever,
from pole to pole.
Ah if only I were with you, below,
and the kind earth was moistened by my blood.
If fate’s opposed, and will not consent
that I fall in war, and close
my dying eyes, for Greece,
then, if the powers above so will,
may that lesser fame,
of your poet, the future may bring,
endure as long as yours shall endure.’