That Rome is dead -- here is the grave --
Dead glory rises never;
And countless crosses o'er it wave,
And will wave on forever.
Beyond the Tiber gleams a dome
Above the hill-tops seven;
It arches o'er the world from Rome,
And leads the world to Heaven.
____
December 6, 1872.
After Sickness
I nearly died, I almost touched the door
That swings between forever and no more;
I think I heard the awful hinges grate,
Hour after hour, while I did weary wait
Death's coming; but alas! 'twas all in vain:
The door half-opened and then closed again.
What were my thoughts? I had but one regret --
That I was doomed to live and linger yet
In this dark valley where the stream of tears
Flows, and, in flowing, deepens thro' the years.
My lips spake not -- my eyes were dull and dim,
But thro' my heart there moved a soundless hymn --
A triumph song of many chords and keys,
Transcending language -- as the summer breeze,
Which, through the forest mystically floats,
Transcends the reach of mortal music's notes.
A song of victory -- a chant of bliss:
Wedded to words, it might have been like this:
"Come, death! but I am fearless,
I shrink not from your frown;
The eyes you close are tearless;
Haste! strike this frail form down.
Come! there is no dissembling
In this last, solemn hour,
But you'll find my heart untrembling
Before your awful power.
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