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Mighty it roll'd on the winds afar,

Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car ;
Thro’ torches and streamers its flood swept by-
How could I listen for moan or sigh?

Turn then

away from life's pageants, turn, If its deep story thy heart would learn ! Ever too bright is that outward show, Dazzling the eyes till they see not wo. But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true ; Nor fear to survey what its folds concealSo must thy spirit be taught to feel !


There blend the ties that strengthen

Our hearts in hours of grief, 'The silver links that lengthen Joy's visits when most brief.


By the soft green light in the woody glade,
On the banks of moss where thy childhood play'd ;
By the household tree thro' which thine eye
First look'd in love to the summer-sky;
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious--oh! guard it well!

By the sleepy ripple of the stream,
Which hath lull'd thee into many a dream;
By the shiver of the ivy-leaves
To the wind of morn at thy casement-eaves,
By the bees' deep murmur in the limes,
By the music of the Sabbath-chimes,
By every sound of thy native shade,
Stronger and dearer the spell is made.

By the gathering round the winter hearth,
When twilight call'd unto household mirth;

By the fairy tale or the legend old
In that ring of happy faces told ;
By the quiet hour when hearts unite
In the parting prayer and the kind “Good-night ;"
By the smiling eye and the loving tone,
Over thy life has the spell been thrown.

And bless that gift!-it hath gentle might,
A guardian power and a guiding light.

It hath led the freeman forth to stand

In the mountain-battles of his land;

It' hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ;
And back to the gates of his father's hall,
It hath led the weeping prodigal.

Yes! when thy heart in its pride would stray
From the pure first loves of its youth away ;
When the sullying breath of the world would come
O’er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home;
Think thou again of the woody glade,
And the sound by the rustling ivy made,
Think of the tree at thy father's door,
And the kindly spell shall have power once more !


Roma, Roma, Roma !
Non è piu come era prima.

ROME, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been !

On thy seven hills of yore

Thou satst a queen.

Thou hadst thy triumphs then

Purpling the street, Leaders and sceptred men Bow'd at thy feet.

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