I.

THE corn has turned from grey to red, Since first my spirit wandered forth From the drear cities of the north, And to Italia’s mountains fled.

And here I set my face towards home, For all my pilgrimage is done, Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun Marshals the way to Holy Rome.

O Blessed Lady, who dost hold Upon the seven hills thy reign! O Mother without blot or stain, 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.