VI.

O Rome! imperial lady, Christian queen! Art thou discrowned and desolate indeed? All vainly doth thy smitten greatness plead? Reads none the sorrow of thy brow serene? Perished thy eagles, and o’erthrown thy cross? Thou banished from possession of thine own, While they who rob thee fling thee mocking down An ancient Roman robe to hide thy loss, That the world, seeing thy fair-seeming state, Shall greet the Cæsar who gives thee such grace, Nor heed the appealing sorrow in thy face, Nor hear thy cry like His who at the gate Of Jericho cried out! Bide thou thy day―― Thy Western children for thee weep and pray.