George Gordon Noel Byron

O Rome! my country! city of the soul!

O Rome! my country! city of the soul!

Her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch read more

Her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch forbears.
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things.

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains;
They crown'd him long ago
On a throne of rocks, read more

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains;
They crown'd him long ago
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow.

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind.

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind.

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

Eternity forbids thee to forget.