I.
The fires grew pale on Rome’s deserted shrines,
In the dim grot the Pythia’s voice had died;
—Shout for the City of the Constantines,
The rising city of the billow-side,
The City of the Cross!—great ocean’s bride,
Crown’d with her birth she sprung! Long ages past,
And still she look’d in glory o’er the tide,
Which at her feet barbaric riches cast,
Pour’d by the burning East, all joyously and fast.