class="poetry">Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen
   Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride
   From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!
Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen
Because rich gold in every town is seen,
   And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride
   Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride
Beneath one flag of red and white and green.
O Fair and Strong!  O Strong and Fair in vain!
   Look southward where Rome’s desecrated town
   Lies mourning for her God-anointed King!
Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing?
   Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,
   And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.

Venice.

SONNET

WRITTEN IN HOLY WEEK AT GENOA

I wandered through Scoglietto’s far retreat,
   The oranges on each o’erhanging spray
   Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;
Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet
Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet
   Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:
   And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay
Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.
Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,
   ‘Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,
   O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.’
Ah, God!  Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours
   Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,
   The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.

ROME UNVISITED

I.

The corn has turned from grey to red,
   Since first my spirit wandered forth
   From the drear cities of the north,
And to Italia’s mountains fled.

And here I set my face towards home,
   For all my pilgrimage is done,
   Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun
Marshals the way to Holy Rome.

O Blessed Lady, who dost hold
   Upon the seven hills thy reign!
   O Mother without blot or stain,
Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!

O Roma, Roma, at thy feet
   I lay this barren gift of song!
   For, ah! the way is steep and long
That leads unto thy sacred street.

II.

And yet what joy it were for me
   To turn my feet unto the south,
   And journeying towards the Tiber mouth
To kneel again at Fiesole!

And wandering through the tangled pines
   That break the gold of Arno’s stream,
   To see the purple mist and gleam
Of morning on the Apennines

By many a vineyard-hidden home,
   Orchard and olive-garden grey,
   Till from the drear Campagna’s way
The seven hills bear up the dome!

III.

A pilgrim from the northern seas—
   What joy for me to seek alone
   The wondrous temple and the throne
Of him who holds the awful keys!

When, bright with purple and with gold
   Come priest and holy cardinal,
   And borne above the heads of all
The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.

O joy to see before I die
   The only God-anointed king,
   And hear the silver trumpets ring
A triumph as he passes by!

Or at the brazen-pillared shrine
   Holds high the mystic sacrifice,
   And shows his God to human eyes
Beneath the veil of bread and wine.

IV.

For lo, what changes time can bring!
   The cycles of revolving years
   May free my heart from all its fears,
And teach my lips a song to sing.

Before yon field of trembling gold
   Is garnered into dusty sheaves,
   Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leaves
Flutter as birds adown the wold,

I may have run the glorious race,
   And caught the torch while yet aflame,
   And called upon the holy name
Of Him who now doth hide His face.

Arona.

URBS SACRA ÆTERNA

Rome! what a scroll of History thine has been;
   In the first days thy sword republican
   Ruled the whole world for many an age’s span:
Then of the peoples wert thou royal Queen,
Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen;
   And now upon thy walls the breezes fan
   (Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man!)
The hated flag of red and white and green.
When was thy glory! when in search for power
   Thine eagles flew to greet the double sun,
   And the wild nations shuddered at thy rod?
Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour,
   When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One,
   The prisoned shepherd of the Church of God.