V.

O artist! lurks there in your sculptured thought No vision of another Rome than this? Along the antique border of her dress I sought in vain to see the symbol wrought That she has steadfast borne since first its touch Did her, the holy one, e’er consecrate The tender mother of the desolate, Consoler of poor hearts o’erburdened much, Pure spouse of Him who is Eternal Life, Inheritor of beauty ever new Yet ever ancient, ’missioned to subdue Beneath love’s yoke the nations lost in strife―― Rome’s eagles shadowed not a realm so wide As lights the cross, her trust from Him that died.