Poems : patriotic, religious, miscellaneous / by Abram J. Ryan [electronic text]
About this Item
Title
Poems : patriotic, religious, miscellaneous / by Abram J. Ryan [electronic text]
Author
Ryan, Abram Joseph, 1836-1886
Publication
Baltimore, Md.: John B. Piet & Co.
1884
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"Poems : patriotic, religious, miscellaneous / by Abram J. Ryan [electronic text]." In the digital collection American Verse Project. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/BAD9548.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed June 13, 2024.
Pages
IN ROME.
At last the dream of youthStands fair and bright before me,The sunshine of the home of truthFalls tremulously o'er me.
And tower, and spire, and lofty domeIn brightest skies are gleaming;Walk I, to-day, the ways of Rome,Or am I only dreaming?
No, 'tis no dream; my very eyesGaze on the hill-tops seven;Where crosses rise and kiss the skies,And grandly point to Heaven.
descriptionPage 121
Gray ruins loom on ev'ry side,Each stone an age's story;They seem the very ghosts of prideThat watch the grave of glory.
There senates sat, whose sceptre soughtAn empire without limit;There grandeur dreamed its dream and thoughtThat death would never dim it.
There rulers reigned; yon heap of stonesWas once their gorgeous palace;Beside them now, on altar-thrones,The priests lift up the chalice.
There legions marched with bucklers bright,And lances lifted o'er them;While flags, like eagles plumed for flight,Unfurled their wings before them.
There poets sang, whose deathless nameIs linked to deathless verses;There heroes hushed with shouts of fameTheir trampled victim's curses.
descriptionPage 122
There marched the warriors back to home,Beneath yon crumbling portal,And placed upon the brow of RomeThe proud crown of immortal.
There soldiers stood with armor on,In steel-clad ranks and serried,The while their red swords flashed uponThe slaves whose rights they buried.
Here pagan pride, with sceptre, stood,And fame would not forsake it,Until a simple cross of woodCame from the East to break it.
That Rome is dead — here is the grave —Dead glory rises never;And countless crosses o'er it wave,And will wave on forever.
Beyond the Tiber gleams a domeAbove the hill-tops seven;It arches o'er the world from Rome,And leads the world to Heaven.
December 6, 1872
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