"Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee,
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, To the last halo of the chiefs and sages
Who glorify thy consecrated pages;
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still, The fount at which the panting mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the etemal source of Rome's imperial hill." "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage", Canto III, Lord Byron Comments are closed.
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May 2018
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