Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans

Rome, Rome, thou art no more
As thou hast been!
On thy seven hills of yore
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Rome, Rome, thou art no more
As thou hast been!
On thy seven hills of yore
Thou sat'st a queen.

Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hushed hour,
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Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hushed hour,
Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced!

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit read more

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.
. . . .
The flames roll'd on--he would not go
Without his Father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
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Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair--
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child!

Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows,
And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?

Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows,
And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?