GRAFFITI D'ITALIA.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume IV, Issue 190, 17 November 1876, Page 6

GRAFFITI D'ITALIA.

(aeona. lago maggiore.) The follow hip; beautiful poem appears in ' The Month,' London, for September. It ii .by Oscar OF. Wilde, sou of Lady Wilde, whosse poetic genius he iuherits. Mr. Wilde and his family are Protestants, and he is at present a student in Oxford University. I. The corn has turned from gray to red, Since first my spirit wandered forth From the drear cities of the north. And to Italia's mountains fled. And here I set my face towards home, Alas ! my pilgrimage is done, Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun Marshals the way to Holy Rome. O Blessed Lady, who dost hold Upon the seven hills thy reign ! 0 Mother, without blot or stain, Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold ! O Eoma, Eoma, at thy feet 1 lay this barren gift of song ! For, ah ! the way is steep and long That leads unto thy sacred street. ii. And yet what joy it were for me To turn my feet unto the south, And journeying towards the Tiber mouth To kneel again at Fiesole ! Or wandering through the tangled pines That break the gold of Arno's stream, To see the purple mist and gleam Of morning on the Apennines. By many a vineyard-hidden home, Orchard, and olive-garden gray, Till rise from the Campagna's way The seven hills, the golden dome ! in. A pilgrim from the northern seas — What joy for me to seek alone The wondrous Temple, and the throne Of Him who holds the awful keys ! When, bright with purple and with gold, Come priest and holy Cardinal, And borne above the heads of all The gentle Shepherd of the Fold. 0 joy to see before I die The only God-anointed King, And hear the silver trumpets rin» A triumph as He passes by ! Or at the altar of the shrine Holds high the mystic sacrifice, And shows a God to human eyes From the dead fruit of corn and wine. IV. For, 10, what changes time can brinf ! The cycles of revolving years ° May free my heart from all its fears And teach nay lips a song to sin"-. Before yon troubled sea of gold The reapers garner into sheaves, Or c'en the autumn's scarlet leaves Flutter as birds adown the wold, 1 may have run the glorious race, And caught the torch while yet aflame, And called upon the holy name Of Him who now doth hide His face.