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.

And here I set my face towards home,

      For all my pilgrimage is done,

      Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun

Marshals the way to Holy Rome.

O Blessed Lady, who dost hold

      Upon the seven hills thy reign!

      O Mother without blot or stain,

Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!

O Roma, Roma, at thy feet

      I lay this barren gift of song!

      For, ah! the way is steep and long

That leads unto thy sacred street.