| |
| SHE sits among the eternal hills, | |
| Their crown, thrice glorious and dear, | |
| Her voice is as a thousand tongues | |
| Of silver fountains, gurgling clear; | |
| |
| Her breath is prayer, her life is love, | 5 |
| And worship of all lovely things; | |
| Her children have a gracious port, | |
| Her beggars show the blood of kings. | |
| |
| By old Tradition guarded close, | |
| None doubt the grandeur she has seen; | 10 |
| Upon her venerable front | |
| Is written: “I was born a queen!” | |
| |
| She rules the age by Beauty’s power, | |
| As once she ruled by arméd might; | |
| The Southern sun doth treasure her | 15 |
| Deep in his golden heart of light. | |
| |
| Awe strikes the traveller when he sees | |
| The vision of her distant dome, | |
| And a strange spasm wrings his heart | |
| As the guide whispers, “There is Rome!” | 20 |
| |
| Rome of the Romans! where the gods | |
| Of Greek Olympus long held sway; | |
| Rome of the Christians, Peter’s tomb, | |
| The Zion of our later day. | |
| |
| Rome, the mailed Virgin of the world, | 25 |
| Defiance on her brows and breast; | |
| Rome, to voluptuous pleasure won, | |
| Debauched, and locked in drunken rest. | |
| |
| Rome, in her intellectual day, | |
| Europe’s intriguing step-dame grown; | 30 |
| Rome, bowed to weakness and decay, | |
| A canting, mass-frequenting crone. | |
| |
| Then the unlettered man plods on, | |
| Half chiding at the spell he feels, | |
| The artist pauses at the gate, | 35 |
| And on the wondrous threshold kneels. | |
| |
| The sick man lifts his languid head | |
| For those soft skies and balmy airs; | |
| The pilgrim tries a quicker pace, | |
| And hugs remorse, and patters prayers. | 40 |
| |
| For even the grass that feeds the herds | |
| Methinks some unknown virtue yields; | |
| The very hinds in reverence tread | |
| The precincts of the ancient fields. | |
| |
| But wrapt in gloom of night and death, | 45 |
| I crept to thee, dear mother Rome; | |
| And in thy hospitable heart | |
| Found rest and comfort, health and home, | |
| |
| And friendships, warm and living still, | |
| Although their dearest joys are fled; | 50 |
| True sympathies that bring to life | |
| That better self, so often dead. | |
| |
| For all the wonder that thou wert, | |
| For all the dear delight thou art, | |
| Accept a homage from my lips, | 55 |
| That warms again a wasted heart. | |
| |
| And, though it seem a childish prayer, | |
| I ’ve breathed it oft, that when I die, | |
| As thy remembrance dear in it, | |
| That heart in thee might buried lie. | 60 |
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