Beneath love’s yoke the nations lost in strife—
Rome’s eagles shadowed not a realm so wide
As lights the cross, her trust from Him that died.
VI.
O Rome! imperial lady, Christian queen!
Art thou discrowned and desolate indeed?
All vainly doth thy smitten greatness plead?
Reads none the sorrow of thy brow serene?
Perished thy eagles, and o’erthrown thy cross?
Thou banished from possession of thine own,