Page:Poems (1853).djvu/47

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The thunders of the Vatican
 Had long since died away;
Saint Peter’s chair seemed tottering,
 And crumbling to decay.

Thy ancient line of Pontiff Kings
 Was to the past allied;
And oft in Freedom’s holy wars,
 They fought not on her side.

The sacred banner of the Cross
 Was trailing, soiled and torn;
And often had the hostile ranks
 That blessed ensign borne.

But from her death-like slumber now,
 The seven-hilled city wakes:
Italia! on thy shrouded sky,
 A gleam of morning breaks.

Along the Alps and Appenines
 Runs an electric thrill;
A golden splendor lights once more
 The Capitolian hill.

And hopes, bright as thy sunny skies,
 Are o’er thy future cast;