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| “IF ever I in Rome should dwell,— | |
| Rome, the desired of all my heart,— | |
| Amidst that world loved long and well, | |
| The infinite world of ancient art; | |
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| “And there, by graves so dear to fame, | 5 |
| A dreaming poet, cast my lot; | |
| What voice within would whisper shame, | |
| Were England and her needs forgot!” | |
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| So to myself, with museful mouth, | |
| I said long since, the while I paced, | 10 |
| With heart that trembled towards the south, | |
| Through London’s coiled and stony waste. | |
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| How doubly dreary seemed the smoke, | |
| The sunless noon, the starless even, | |
| When o’er my dream a vision broke,— | 15 |
| Italy! or the courts of Heaven! | |
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| Now, walking on this Pincian Hill, | |
| And watching where the day declines | |
| (Gilding the Cross of Peter still) | |
| By Monte Mario’s fringe of pines, | 20 |
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| Almost, I think, the heart might grow | |
| Forgetful of its earlier ties, | |
| And all its life-blood learn to flow | |
| Familiar with Italian skies. | |
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| Not with the love of brain or soul, | 25 |
| But with that fiery strength we use | |
| In leaning towards the strong control | |
| Of what we must, not what we choose. | |
| |
| As mother for child, as wife for spouse, | |
| As one long exiled yearns for home, | 30 |
| As sinner for the Heavenly House, | |
| So yearned, so loved I thee, O Rome! | |
| |
| Now I have seen thee,—seen the plains, | |
| The desolate plains where thou dost lie; | |
| Where many a rock-built tomb complains | 35 |
| Of some great name or race gone by, | |
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| And past the walls that round thee sweep | |
| Have daily ridden,—walls sublime! | |
| Which girdle in thy power, and keep | |
| Inviolate from the hands of Time. | 40 |
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| Just touched and softened by decay, | |
| Each gate some glorious year recalls; | |
| Kings! Consuls! Emperors! Saints! were they | |
| Who mile by mile linked walls to walls. | |
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| All ancient cities, though great they be | 45 |
| (And London counts by tens of tens), | |
| Seem pygmy towns compared to thee; | |
| While Lincoln, throned amidst her fens, | |
| |
| And York upon her meadow-side | |
| (A thousand milestones on her road), | 50 |
| Are footprints, just to show the stride | |
| With which the giant Cæsar strode! | |
| |
| Yet here, where Cæsar lies in state, | |
| Amidst the cypress and the rose, | |
| A lovelier mountain mourns his fate, | 55 |
| A nobler river swiftlier flows. | |
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| O starlit streets of ancient Rome, | |
| Baptized in blood of Christian men! | |
| Happy the hearts that call ye home, | |
| And feet that toward ye turn again! | 60 |
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| I oft in dreams shall seem to see | |
| Hills where the olive and the vine | |
| Fall rippling down to meet the sea; | |
| Or underneath the branching pine | |
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| Shall watch the storm-clouds sweeping by, | 65 |
| Down from the Alban Mount in swirls, | |
| And, blackening all the vaulted sky, | |
| Rush tangling through our sculptor’s curls. | |
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| Ah! not too distant fall that day | |
| When I, a pilgrim far from home, | 70 |
| Shall hear upon the Aurelian Way, | |
| “Allons, postillon, vite! à Rome.” | |
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