At last the dream of youth Stands fair and bright before me, The sunshine of the home of truth Falls tremulously o'er me.

    And tower, and spire¹, and lofty dome² In brightest skies are gleaming； Walk I, to-day, the ways of Rome, Or am I only dreaming？

    No, 'tis no dream； my very eyes Gaze on the hill-tops seven； Where crosses rise and kiss the skies, And grandly point to Heaven.

    Gray ruins loom³ on ev'ry side, Each stone an age's story； They seem the very ghosts of pride That watch the grave of glory.

    There senates sat, whose sceptre sought An empire without limit； There grandeur⁴ dreamed its dream and thought That death would never dim it.

    There rulers reigned⁵； yon heap of stones Was once their gorgeous palace； Beside them now, on altar-thrones, The priests lift up the chalice⁶.

    There legions marched with bucklers bright, And lances lifted o'er them； While flags, like eagles plumed⁷ for flight, Unfurled their wings before them.

    There poets sang, whose deathless name Is linked to deathless verses； There heroes hushed with shouts of fame Their trampled⁸ victim's curses.

    There marched the warriors⁹ back to home, Beneath yon crumbling¹⁰ portal, And placed upon the brow of Rome The proud crown of immortal¹¹.

    There soldiers stood with armor on, In steel-clad ranks and serried¹², The while their red swords flashed upon The slaves whose rights they buried.

    Here pagan pride, with sceptre, stood, And fame would not forsake¹³ it, Until a simple cross of wood Came from the East to break it.

    That Rome is dead —— here is the grave —— Dead glory rises never； And countless¹⁴ crosses o'er it wave, And will wave on forever.

    Beyond the Tiber gleams a dome Above the hill-tops seven； It arches o'er the world from Rome, And leads the world to Heaven.