Where shall I turn me not to _view_ its bonds,
For I will never _feel_ them:--Italy!
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds
Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee--
Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds,
Have voices--tongues to cry aloud for me.
Europe has slaves--allies--kings--armies still,
And Southey lives to sing them very ill.