And down from the old stone pine-trees, Those far-off islands of air, The birds are flinging the tidings Of a joyful revel up there. And now for the grand old fountains, Tossing their silvery spray, Those fountains so quaint and so many, That are leaping and singing all day. Those fountains of strange weird sculpture, With lichens and moss o'ergrown, Are they marble greening in moss-wreaths? Or moss-wreaths whitening to stone? Down many a wild, dim pathway We ramble from morning till noon; We linger, unheeding the hours, Till evening comes all too soon. And from out the ilex alleys, Where lengthening shadows play, We look on the dreamy Campagna, All glowing with setting day,-- All melting in bands of purple, In swathings and foldings of gold, In ribands of azure and lilac, Like a princely banner unrolled. And the smoke of each distant cottage, And the flash of each villa white, Shines out with an opal glimmer, Like gems in a casket of light. And the dome of old St. Peter's With a strange translucence glows, Like a mighty bubble of amethyst Floating in waves of rose. In a trance of dreamy vagueness We, gazing and yearning, behold That city beheld by the prophet, Whose walls were transparent gold. And, dropping all solemn and slowly, To hallow the softening spell, There falls on the dying twilight The Ave Maria bell. With a mournful, motherly softness, With a weird and weary care, That strange and ancient city Seems calling the nations to prayer. And the words that of old the angel To the mother of Jesus brought, Rise like a new evangel, To hallow the trance of our thought. With the smoke of the evening incense, Our thoughts are ascending then To Mary, the mother of Jesus, To Jesus, the Master of men. O city of prophets and martyrs, O shrines of the sainted dead, When, when shall the living day-spring Once more on your towers be spread? When He who is meek and lowly Shall rule in those lordly halls, And shall stand and feed as a shepherd The flock which his mercy calls,-- O then to those noble churches, To picture and statue and gem, To the pageant of solemn worship, Shall the _meaning_ come back again. And this strange and ancient city, In that reign of His truth and love, Shall _be_ what it _seems_ in the twilight, The type of that City above. THE GARDENS OF THE VATICAN