V.

What were thy mural crowns, bellipotent Rome, Thy gold-beat turrets for the daring head, Thy vallar circlets given for mounted dome And rampart, wreaths obsidional that shed Their grass-green light than gold more coveted? What thy triumphal bays for glory’s brow, Thy oval myrtle where no Roman bled, Thy civic garland of the oaken bough? Their sound one City filled--the World beholds us now!