Rome Unvisited
I.
THE corn has turned from grey to red,Since first my spirit wandered forthFrom 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 sunMarshals the way to Holy Rome.
O Blessed Lady, who dost holdUpon the seven hills thy reign!O Mother without blot or stain,Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!
O Roma, Roma, at thy feetI lay this barren gift of song!For, ah! the way is steep and longThat leads unto thy sacred street.
II.
AND yet what joy it were for meTo turn my feet unto the south,And journeying towards the Tiber mouthTo kneel again at Fiesole!
And wandering through the tangled pinesThat break the gold of Arno’s stream,To see the purple mist and gleamOf morning on the Apennines
By many a vineyard-hidden home,Orchard and olive-garden grey,Till from the drear Campagna’s wayThe seven hills bear up the dome!
III.
A PILGRIM from the northern seas—What joy for me to seek aloneThe wondrous temple and the throneOf him who holds the awful keys!
When, bright with purple and with goldCome priest and holy cardinal,And borne above the heads of allThe gentle Shepherd of the Fold.
O joy to see before I dieThe only God-anointed king,And hear the silver trumpets ringA triumph as he passes by!
Or at the brazen-pillared shrineHolds high the mystic sacrifice,And shows his God to human eyesBeneath the veil of bread and wine.
IV.
FOR lo, what changes time can bring!The cycles of revolving yearsMay free my heart from all its fears,And teach my lips a song to sing.
Before yon field of trembling goldIs garnered into dusty sheaves,Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leavesFlutter as birds adown the wold,
I may have run the glorious race,And caught the torch while yet aflame,And called upon the holy nameOf Him who now doth hide His face.
ARONA