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It was but eleven years before the first great movement of the Risorgimento swept over Italy in 1848 that he passed away; his poems were indeed songs before sunrise, a sunrise of which he failed to detect the far-off glimmering, so that he could only lament without hope the sad condition of his dismembered country, once the mistress and now the play-thing of the world, and the abject slave of hated Austria: “O patria mia, vedo le mure e gli archi E le colonne e i simulacri e l’ erme Torri degli avi nostri, Ma la gloria non vedo; Non vedo il lauro e’l ferro ond’ eran carchi I nostri padri antichi.”
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