Sonnet to Alfieri

O supreme wrestler on Italia's plains!
See how a race grown feeble and despairing,
Even from thee the sacred laurel tearing,
The rising of thy holy wrath restrains!

To what high prize thou hold'st the guiding reins,
Whither aloft the stars with thee are faring,
The while the age, to its vile feasts repairing,
Each day tastes viands new and still complains.

“Ungrateful world, O son; and made still worse
By listless souls who on their way proceed
With neither word of chiding nor of praising.
And where to evil thought is linked the curse
Of instincts vile, what heart or mind can read
Those distant heights on which my soul is gazing!”