Classic Poem

Thee April's flowers beheld, when first
From Romulus's furrow burst
Thy battlements and frowned
On the wild plains around:

Thee, worn by centuries of time,
The April sun still greets, sublime
And great, our age-long home,
Flower of Italy, Rome.

Tho' down the sacred way the four
White steeds in triumph pass no more,
Tho' no High Priest climb now
The Capitol's steep brow

With silent Vestal, yet, more grand,
Thy Forum's lonely ruins stand:
Strength, order, peace 'mong men
Are Roman now as then.

Hail, Rome divine! That man who knows
Thee not cold mists of night enclose;
In his base heart a crop
Of barbarous weeds springs up.

Hail, Rome divine! With bowed, sad face
Thy Forum's stones I love to trace,
Kissing each broken sign
Of thee, our Mother divine.

By thee, I 'm poet, great Nurse of men,
By thee, Italian citizen.
The world wakes at thy name,
Thou gav'st to Italy fame.

To thee returns this Italy
Thou madest one, thou madest free.
Lo, on thy breast she lies,
Drawn by thine eagle eyes.

From silent Forum, storied hill
Stretch forth thy marble arms, and still
To her who frees thee show
Arches and columns now

Awaiting no new triumphings
Of Caesars and victorious kings,
With captives ta'en in war
Bound to their ivory car,

Nay, but your triumph, Italian folk,
O'er monstrous Powers and their fell yoke
Whence with calm justice ye
Shall set all nations free.

Italy, Rome! That day shall cries
Of glory, glory, glory rise
Above the Forum through
Th' unclouded thund'ring blue.