Poem: 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.