ROME.

The outline of a shadowy city spread Between the garden and the distant hill— And o’er yon dome the flame-ring lingers still, Set like the glory on an angel’s head: The light fades quivering into evening blue Behind the pine-tops on Ianiculum; The swallow whispered to the swallow “come!” And took the sunset on her wings, and flew. One rift of cloud the wind caught up suspending A ruby path between the earth and sky; Those shreds of gold are angel wings ascending From where the sorrows of our singers lie; They have not found those wandering spirits yet, But seek for ever in the red sunset. Pass upward angel wings! Seek not for these, They sit not in the cypress-planted graves; Their spirits wander over moonlit waves, And sing in all the singing of the seas; And by green places in the spring-tide showers, And in the re-awakening of flowers. Some pearl-lipped shell still dewy with sea foam Bear back to whisper where their feet have trod; They are the earth’s for evermore; fly home! And lay a daisy at the feet of God.

Night wanes; I sit in the ruin alone; Beneath, the shadow of arches falls From the dim outline of the broken walls; And the half-light steals o’er the age-worn stone From a midway arch where the moon looks through A silver shield in the deep, deep blue. This is the hour of ghosts that rise;— Line on line of the noiseless dead— The clouds above are their awning spread; Look into the shadow with moon-dazed eyes, You will see the writhing of limbs in pain, And the whole red tragedy over again. The ghostly galleys ride out and meet, The Cæsar sits in his golden chair, His fingers toy with his women’s hair, The water is blood-red under his feet,— Till the owl’s long cry dies down with the night, And one star waits for the dawning light.

This was the first shrine lit for Queen Marie; And I will sit a little at her feet, For winds without howl down the narrow street And storm-clouds gather from the westward sea. Sweet here to watch the peasant people pray, While through the crimson shrouded-window falls Low light of even, and the golden walls Grow dim and dreamful at the end of day. Till from these columns fades their marble sheen, And lines grow soft and mystical,—these wraiths That watch the service of the changing faiths, To Mary mother from the Cyprian queen. But aye for me this old-word colonnade Seems open to blue summer skies once more, These altars pass, and on the polished floor I see the lines of chequered light and shade; I seem to see the dark-browed Lybian lean To cool the tortured burning of the lash, I see the fountains as they leap and flash, The rustling sway of cypress set between. And now yon friar with the bare feet there, Is grown the haunting spirit of the place; Ah! brown-robed friar with the shaven face, The saints are weary of thy mumbled prayer. From matins’ bell to the slow day’s decline He sits and thumbs his endless round of beads, Draws out the dreary cadence of his creeds, And nods assent to each familiar line. But she the goddess whose white star is set, Whose fane was pillaged for this sombre shrine, Could she look down upon those lips of thine, And hear thee mutter, would she still regret? There came a sound of singing on my ear, And slowly glided through the far-off door A glimmer of grey forms like ghosts, they bore A dead man lying on his purple bier. Some poor man’s soul, so little candle smoke Went curling upwards by the uncased shroud, And then a sudden thunder-clap broke loud, And drowned the droning of the priest who spoke. So all the shuffling feet passed out again To lightnings flashing through the wet and wind, And while I lingered in the gate behind The dead man travelled through the storm and rain.