Part 6

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.

MONTRE MARIO.

SONNET

ON HEARING THE DIES IRÆ SUNG IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL

NAY, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring, Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove, Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love Than terrors of red flame and thundering. The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring: A bird at evening flying to its nest Tells me of One who had no place of rest: I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing. Come rather on some autumn afternoon, When red and brown are burnished on the leaves, And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song, Come when the splendid fulness of the moon Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves, And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.

EASTER DAY

THE silver trumpets rang across the Dome: The people knelt upon the ground with awe: And borne upon the necks of men I saw, Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome. Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam, And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red, Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head: In splendour and in light the Pope passed home. My heart stole back across wide wastes of years To One who wandered by a lonely sea, And sought in vain for any place of rest: ‘Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest. I, only I, must wander wearily, And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.’

E TENEBRIS

COME down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand, For I am drowning in a stormier sea Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee: The wine of life is spilt upon the sand, My heart is as some famine-murdered land Whence all good things have perished utterly, And well I know my soul in Hell must lie If I this night before God’s throne should stand. ‘He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase, Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name From morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten height.’ Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night, The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame, The wounded hands, the weary human face.

VITA NUOVA