Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/403

CANTO IV.] XLII.

Italia! oh, Italia! thou who hast

The fatal gift of Beauty, which became

A funeral dower of present woes and past—

On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame,

And annals graved in characters of flame.

Oh, God! that thou wert in thy nakedness

Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim

Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press

To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress;

XLIII.

Then might'st thou more appal—or, less desired,

Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored