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'Tis strange, this stillness!

295

The night is well-nigh spent: the fires burn low:
'Tis stranger yet, that stillness in my breast!
Long years seem nought—I see my childhood's home,
Saint Mary's Convent on Mount Aventine
That overlooks half Rome. Again I note
That white-haired monk draw nigh me; hear him speak;
‘Boy, where thou gazest gazed in years gone by
Rome's oldest Augur, and King Romulus.
Ravens eleven in slow, successive flight
Sailed from the East. That Augur watched them long:
Then spake: “Yon ravens, King, are centuries;
Thy realm will last for centuries ten and one,
Then crumbling, leave its cycle incomplete
Since all is incomplete which is not God.”’
So spake that monk white-haired. I answered thus:
‘Ten centuries! thousand centuries fled, God's Church
Will yet be in her prime!’