No beaded aves drifted from cowled pilgrims of the cross,
No murmur of atoning prayers pleading the nations’ loss;
No tourists’ idle laughter broke the silence of the scene,
While the shrouding arches sheltered my thoughts of what had been.
Years, centuries had vanished as my wingèd thoughts flew fast
To days when Rome imperial o’er the world her robe had cast;
O’er the wild, barbarian legions I saw her eagles shine,
While her nobles quaffed Greek learning in draughts of Grecian wine—
Expounding, too, with easy art, the Christians’ foolish faith:
How traitorous to Cæsar’s state was every Christian breath.