One remembers all they have suffered, all they have achieved in spite of wrong.

Brute races have flung themselves, one after another, upon this sweet and glorious land; conquest and slavery, from age to age, have been the people's lot.
Tread where one will, the soil has been drenched with blood.

An immemorial woe sounds even through the lilting notes of Italian gaiety.
It is a country wearied and regretful, looking ever backward to the things of old; trivial in its latter life, and unable to hope sincerely for the future.

Moved by these voices singing over the dust of Croton, I asked pardon for all my foolish irritation, my impertinent fault-finding.

Why had I come hither, if it was not that I loved land and people?
And had I not richly known the recompense of my love?
Legitimately enough one may condemn the rulers of Italy, those who take upon themselves to shape her political life, and recklessly load her with burdens insupportable.