O Rome! my country! city of the soul!

For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast.

For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; A single laugh demolished the right arm Of his country.

The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the Music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonised the whole —
And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul.