OF all the seven which Rome doth boast,
(Fair hills and nobly crowned!)
I love the Coelian Hill the most,
And think it holy ground.

'Twas here the deacon Laurence died,
And here was Gregory's cell;
The heart by honours sorely tried
Remembered it right well;

And as his pious envoys bore
The British cross on high,
He, like a sailor turned from shore,
Looked backward with a sigh,

And though he held within his hand
The Church from east to west,
He thought of all the Christian land
This Coelian Hill the best.

I cannot tell, I know not why,
But Rome from hence doth wear
Peculiar brightness in the sky
And beauty in the air.

A dreamy light is in the trees,
The winding walks are still,
And quietly the perfumed breeze
Creeps o'er the Coelian Hill.

As tranquil convents faintly chime
The passing hours of prayer,
They give the only hints that time
Has marked its progress there.

The martyr's home, the saint's retreat
Have filled the place with rest,
The centuries with silent feet
Have touched its leafy crest;

And Gregory, rising from his sleep,
Himself would scarcely know
That past of his was buried deep
A thousand years ago!