She, the world’s mistress, begging so her bread
At her own gates, her empire’s wreck beside!
Withered and old, craven in form and face,
Yet keeping still some gift from out the past
In the broad mantle o’er her shoulders cast,
Where lingered yet her ancient, haughty grace—
Conscious each fold of that far-sounding name,
Imperial still in spite of loss and shame.
III.
And was this Rome? Nor faith, nor hope, nor love