| |
| OF all the seven which Rome doth boast, | |
| (Fair hills and nobly crowned!) | |
| I love the Cœlian Hill the most, | |
| And think it holy ground. | |
| |
| ’T was here the deacon Laurence died, | 5 |
| And here was Gregory’s cell; | |
| The heart by honors sorely tried | |
| Remembered it right well;— | |
| |
| And as his pious envoys bore | |
| The British cross on high, | 10 |
| He, like a sailor turned from shore, | |
| Looked backward with a sigh, | |
| |
| And though he held within his hand | |
| The Church from east to west, | |
| He thought of all the Christian land | 15 |
| This Cœlian Hill the best. | |
| |
| I cannot tell, I know not why, | |
| But Rome from hence doth wear | |
| Peculiar brightness in the sky | |
| And beauty in the air. | 20 |
| |
| A dreamy light is in the trees, | |
| The winding walks are still, | |
| And quietly the perfumed breeze | |
| Creeps o’er the Cœlian Hill. | |
| |
| As tranquil convents faintly chime | 25 |
| The passing hours of prayer, | |
| They give the only hints that time | |
| Has marked its progress there. | |
| |
| The martyr’s home, the saint’s retreat, | |
| Have filled the place with rest, | 30 |
| The centuries with silent feet | |
| Have touched its leafy crest; | |
| |
| And Gregory, rising from his sleep, | |
| Himself would scarcely know | |
| That past of his was buried deep | 35 |
| A thousand years ago! | |
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