The ways were silent where the sunshine poured Its simmering, golden stream; For half the town slept in its shaded halls, Half worked as in a dream; The very fountains dropt from sleepiness, Pillowed in their own foam, I only, and the poppies, it would seem, Were wide awake in Rome. There were the gray old ruins, in whose nooks Nodded each wild flower-bell, Where San Bernardo’s fane is hidden, like A pearl within its shell. There marched the Piedmont robber and his host In through the long, long street; And there the open portal of a church Drew in my straying feet. Silence and coolness, and a shade so deep, At first I saw no more Than circling clouds and cherubs, with the dome’s Bright bubble floating o’er; Wide flocks of milk-white angels in the roof, The hovering Bird divine; And, starring the lower dusk, the steady lamps That marked each hidden shrine. Then marble walls and gilded galleries Grew slowly into sight; And holy visions peered from out the gloom Of chapels left and right; And I perceived a brown-robed sacristan, With a good, pleasant face, Who sat alone within an altar-rail To guard the sacred place. He showed me all their treasures――the dead saint Within her altar-shrine; Showed where the Master sat, in gilded bronze, Blessing the bread and wine; Unveiled the niche whose swooning marble form ’Tis half a sin to see―― Bernini’s St. Teresa――and betrayed Her dying ecstasy; Then led me to the sacristy, where hung, Painted the glorious field―― Lepanto’s――and he told the ancient tale, How, like a magic shield, Our Lady’s sacred picture, borne aloft In the dread battle’s shock. Had sent the scattered Paynim flying far, Like foam from off a rock. When all was seen and said, my parting foot A soft “Aspetti!” stayed Just where a tiny garden ’mid the walls Its nook of verdure made. And while I waited, was broke off for me A bright geranium bloom, And this blush-rose, whose richly-perfumed breath Has sweetened the whole room. “_O Rosa Mystica!_” I thought, and felt Consoled, scarce knowing why; It seemed that in that brief hour all my wrong Had righted silently, As when, new-shriven, we go forth to tread The troubled ways of men. Folded in peace, and with no need, it seems, Ever to speak again. Lady invincible! Her grander fields Are praised ’neath every sun; But who shall count the secret victories Her gentler arms have won? Hers are the trumpet and the waving flag; But there is one who knows That on a certain summer day in Rome She conquered with a rose. LONDON GUILDS AND APPRENTICES.