Who, issuing from that ancient dome,
Pour through the crowded streets of Rome.
Now from her watch-tower on the height,
With step as fabled wood-nymph’s light,
She flies—and swift her way pursues
Through the lone convent’s avenues.
Dark cypress groves, and fields o’erspread
With records of the conquering dead,
And paths which track a glowing waste,
She traverses in breathless haste;