Explore "To the Princes of Italy, Exhorting them to Set her Free (Italia Mia, Benche 'L Parlar Sia Indarno)" by Francesco Petrarca on Textopian.
O my own Italy! though words are vain / The mortal wounds to close, / Unnumber'd, that thy beauteous bosom stain, / Yet may it soothe my pain / To sigh forth Tyber's woes, / And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's sadden'd shore / Sorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour.
Ruler of heaven! By the all-pitying love / That could thy Godhead move / To dwell a lowly sojourner on earth, / Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen land thine eye: / See, God of Charity! / From what light cause this cruel war has birth; / And the hard hearts by savage discord steel'd, / Thou, Father! from on high, / Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield!