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aloud, and ye shall hear my call, Arno, Tesino, Tyber! Adrian deep, And blue Tyrrhene! Let him first rous'd from sleep, Startle the next! one peril broods o'er all.

It nought avails that Italy should plead, Forgetting valour, sinking in despair, At strangers' feet!—our land is all too fair, Nor tears, nor prayers, can check ambition's speed.

In vain her faded cheek, her humbled eye, For pardon sue; 'tis not her agony, Her death alone may now appease her foes. Be theirs to suffer who to combat shun! But oh! weak pride, thus feeble and undone, Nor to wage battle, nor endure repose!