ORIGINAL POETRY.
GAVAZZI THE PROPHET. Yes, dark-robed monk whose noble breast The sacred tri-colour enshrines, Whose words shall fire that land unblest, Where blood is glowing on the vines, Where Tiber's deathless waters smile On despot's sword and statesman's wile. Yes, it shall come, that day of dread, When Rome pontifical shall fall, That triple crown—that haughty head, Be veil'd as with a funeral pall; And only in historic page Scare children of a future age. Oh Rome the mighty! well thy sons May weep in tears of blood for thee, For wolves more fierce than ancient Huns In iron fetters prison thee. Thy covert friends oppress thee —thou Remain'st a Queen with diadem'd brow. Yet when that day shall come, brave arms, Bold workers of that just award, Oh let not rapine's fearful charms Spoil her, where orator and bard, Painter and sculptor found a home, The seven-hill'd, the Eternal Rome! For ev'ry burning light that raised In that dark age a pile to flame From her imperial jewels blazed— And even if no nobler name Than thine, Gavazzi, we could see, She should be spared for rearing thee.
St. George.
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New Zealander, Volume 7, Issue 573, 11 October 1851, Page 4
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192ORIGINAL POETRY. New Zealander, Volume 7, Issue 573, 11 October 1851, Page 4
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