And throned upon the crescent moon The Virginal white Queen of Grace,— Mary! could I but see thy face Death could not come at all too soon. O crowned by God with thorns and pain! Mother of Christ! O mystic wife! My heart is weary of this life And over-sad to sing again. O crowned by God with love and flame! O crowned by Christ the Holy One! O listen ere the searching sun Show to the world my sin and shame. AVE MARIA GRATIA PLENA WAS this His coming! I had hoped to see A scene of wondrous glory, as was told Of some great God who in a rain of gold Broke open bars and fell on Danae: Or a dread vision as when Semele Sickening for love and unappeased desire Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly: With such glad dreams I sought this holy place, And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand Before this supreme mystery of Love: Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face, An angel with a lily in his hand, And over both the white wings of a Dove. FLORENCE. ITALIA ITALIA! thou art fallen, though with sheen Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide! Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen Because rich gold in every town is seen, And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride Beneath one flag of red and white and green. O Fair and Strong! O Strong and Fair in vain! Look southward where Rome’s desecrated town Lies mourning for her God-anointed King! Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing? Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down, And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain. VENICE. SONNET WRITTEN IN HOLY WEEK AT GENOA I WANDERED through Scoglietto’s far retreat, The oranges on each o’erhanging spray Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day; Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay: And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet. Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear, ‘Jesus the son of Mary has been slain, O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.’ Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain, The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear. ROME UNVISITED I. THE corn has turned from grey to red, Since first my spirit wandered forth From the drear cities of the north, And to Italia’s mountains fled.