“Rome,” nothing more; so leaving to each thought
To mould in mind the form the sculptor wrought,
The living soul within the dead clay’s frame.
And was this Rome, so weak and sad and old,
So crouching down with withered lip and cheek,
With trembling fingers stretched as if to seek,
The thoughtless wanderers’ idly-given gold?—
Some Roman coins loose-lying in her lap,
Some treasure saved from out her ancient wealth,
Or begged with downcast look as if by stealth,