Trumpets trilled with triumphant sound
Kissing victory's crimson feet,
Silence whispered a lullaby
Lulling children of defeat.
No field under the Tuscan sun
Held a solitary rose,
Nor poet, nor artist, nor sage
In poetry or prose.
Now forever imprisoned 'neath
His'try's eternal frown,
What purpose possessed the fallen,
Save bearing the victor's crown?