COME, Dante! virtuous, sage, and bold,
Come, look into that miry fold;
Foxes and wolves lie there asleep,
O’ergorged; and men but wake to weep;
Come, Saints and Virgins! whose one tomb
Is Rome’s parental catacomb; —
Above where once ye bled, there now
Foul breath blows blushes from the brow
Of maidens, whipt until they fall
To feed the plump confessional.
O earlier shades! not less revered!
In your Elysium ye have heard
No tale so sad, no tale so true,
None so incredible to you.
Gloomy as droops the present day,
And Hope is chill’d and shrinks away,
Another age perhaps may see
Freedom raise up dead Italy.