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Va, pensiero, sull'ali dorate; va, ti posa sui clivi, sui colli ove olezzano tepide e molli l'aure dolci del suolo natal! Del Giordano le rive saluta, di Sionne le torri atterrate. Oh, mia patria sì bella e perduta! Oh, membranza sì cara e fatal!
Arpa d'or dei fatidici vati, perché muta dal salice pendi? Le memorie nel petto raccendi, ci favella del tempo che fu! O simile di Solima ai fati traggi un suono di crudo lamento, o t'ispiri il Signore un concento che ne infonda al patire virtù!
(Here is the english translation of Nabucco)
Fly, thought, on wings of gold, go settle upon the slopes and the hills where the sweet airs of our native soil smell soft and mild! Greet the banks of the river Jordan and Zion's tumbled towers. Oh, my country, so lovely and lost! Oh remembrance so dear yet unhappy!
Golden harp of the prophetic wise men, why hang so silently from the willows? Rekindle the memories in our hearts, tell us about the times gone by! Remembering the fate of Jerusalem play us a sad lament or else be inspired by the Lord to fortify us to endure our suffering
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