A voice which has no accent of hope.

In the days to come, as through all time that is past, man will lord it over his fellow, and earth will be stained red from veins of young and old.

That sweet and sounding name of _patria_ becomes an illusion and a curse; linked with the pretentious modernism, _civilization_, it serves as plea to the latter-day barbarian, ravening and reckless under his civil garb.

How can one greatly wish for the consolidation and prosperity of Italy, knowing that national vigour tends more and more to international fear and hatred?
They who perished that Italy might be born again, dreamt of other things than old savagery clanging in new weapons.

In our day there is but one Italian patriot; he who tills the soil, and sows, and reaps, ignorant or careless of all beyond his furrowed field.
Whilst I was still thinking of that memorial tablet, I found myself in front of the Cathedral.