Select poetry.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume XIII, Issue 567, 6 April 1868, Page 3

Select poetry.

ROME’S LA3T PAGEANT, NOVEMBER, 18G7. yESTF.sDiT, ths entire city went out of Poriu Fia. in carriages and on foot, to greet the captives, and were met by a long train of the wounded. * * iThe melancholy procession was watched by 40,000 spectators. * * But the vast crowd preserved an unbroken silence, only uncovering to the naribaldiacs.—Pall Mall Gazette, 12th November, 1807. AAPEN thv gates. O Home, to those that come, — Open thy gates and let the vanquished in. Thus, with no measured sound of fife and drum— Thus, with no ransomed people’s joyous din; Silently meet thy conquered children. Borne ! This is their welcome to their ancient home ! To Porta Pia, down the paveu road Go forth the crowds to meet the dreaiy train— Wearily drag the waggons with their load From the bright hills across the dusty plain; Those hills from whence they watched St. Peter’s dome. And dreamed that they were waited for in Home. And Rome waits for them. By the long dead walls, Where hides Torlonia’s Villa with its state. From where the water in the Piazza falls To t lut low cypress by St. Agnes’ gale. Romans, by tens of thousands, watch to-day, And crowd the stones of the N omen tan way. Poor was the victory—little is the show— Lo! Home’s deliverers—wounded beggar boys! When Rinnans, richer, older, wiser grow, They think of winter trading and the joys Of piled Polenta. Let the Pope remain, And let his subjects make their righteous gain. Yet, there is something stirring in their heart For those who fought to conquer or to die. No cheers. French bayonets are not far apart; Yet, as the moaning freights go slowly by. Each head uncovers. So they enter Rome— Their prize erewhile—their prison now—thenhome. Dishonored city 1 Glory of the past! Shame to the present—is there left to thee A future ? Will thy chains be ever cast ? Thy priests, Gou’s servants? and thy people free? And will the children ever learn to fear That King alouo, whose kingdom is not bore ? Hopeless our hope 1 Thy lowest fall is now ; Shrine of long memories, happy are thy dead. Blest are the wounded captives lying low; But thou art fallen—thy earthly light is fled. " Illcet.” All that made thee great is gone— Our only reverence is for earth and stone. If thou art desert in the future times; If daisies in the Doria’s palace grow ; If ivy round thy Raphael’s Loggio climbs; Thou wilt he better, nobler, then than now, A marble-cumbered plain—a ruined Dome— That is the only freedom left for Rome.