As we speak--as we hallow--It moves, It breathes;
From its clouded crest bud the laurel wreaths--
As a Sun that leaps up from the arms of Night,
The shadow takes shape, and the gloom takes light.
Hail! all hail!

The Soul of the Past, again
To its ancient home,
In the hearts of Rome,
Hath come to resume its reign!

O Fame, with a prophet's voice,
Bid the ends of the Earth rejoice!
Wherever the Proud are Strong,
And Right is oppress'd by Wrong;--
Wherever the day dim shines
Through the cell where the captive pines;--
Go forth, with a trumpet's sound!
And tell to the Nations round--
On the Hills which the Heroes trod--
In the shrines of the Saints of God--
In the Caesars' hall, and the Martyrs' prison--
That the slumber is broke, and the Sleeper arisen!
That the reign of the Goth and the Vandal is o'er:
And Earth feels the tread of THE ROMAN once more!

As the hymn ended, the gate of the church opened; the crowd gave way on
either side, and, preceded by three of the young nobles of the inferior
order, bearing standards of allegorical design, depicting the triumph