I Some leveled hills, a wall, a dome That lords its gold cross to the skies, While at its base a beggar cries For bread, and dies, and -- this is Rome. II Yet Rome is Rome, and Rome she must And shall remain beside her gates, And tribute take of Kings and States, Until the stars have fallen to dust. III Yea, Time on yon Campagnan plain Has pitched in siege his battle-tents; And round about her battlements Has marched and trumpeted in vain. IV These skies are Rome! The very loam Lifts up and speaks in Roman pride; And Time, outfaced and still defied, Sits by and wags his beard at Rome. |