DREAMS IN ROME WHAT is it that sings a sleepy tune in my head? O is it in vain, is it in vain I have come? Dark was the road in coming, and white the foam. Is there no rest for me here? are there dreams in Rome? ARTHUR SYMONS. ROMA RIPE hours there be that do anticipate The shadow-symbols of historic fate. Swift through the gloom each mournful chariot rolls, Dim shapes of empire urge the flying steeds, Robed with the changeful passions of men's souls. Ethereal visions pass serene in prayer, Their eyes aglow with sacrificial light; Phantoms of creeds long dead, their garments bright, Drip red with blood of torture and despair. In such an hour my spirit did behold A woman wonderful. Unnumbered years Left in her eyes the beauty born of tears, And full they were of fatal stories old. The trophies of her immemorial reign Still hath she kingdom o'er the souls of men; The sad, the gay, the thoughtful, on her wait, Praising her evermore with tongue and pen. Stately her ways and sweet, and all her own; If thou wouldst see her, as the twilight fails, Go forth along the ancient street of tombs, And when the purple shade divinely glooms High o'er the Alban hills, and night prevails, If then she is not with thee while the light Glows over roof and column, tower and dome, And the dead stir beneath thy feet, and Rome Lies in the solemn keeping of the night, If then she be not thine, not thine the lot ROME UNVISITED THE corn has turned from grey to red, And here I set my face towards home, O Blessed Lady, who dost hold 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. OSCAR WILDE. ROME ROME, on thine air I cast my soul adrift, Not curiously concerned with little things Do thou but shed thine azure round me, Rome, They bless alike the dusky Vatican, And from thy seven hills thou stretchest forth Thine arms, O Rome, to meet the love diffused, A radiant splendour, through the quiet air. The solitudes of the Campagna form That nuptial-couch; and thou, O hoar Soratte, O Alban Mountains, sing ye smilingly Whilst I from the Janiculum look down O ship, whose poop rising on high attains Let me, when fall those twilights radiant Then may the hour supreme, in fleeing, brush Pass to the Councils of the Shades, and see GIOSUÉ CARDUCCI. |