"Oh Rome! My country! city of the soul
The Orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
Lone mother of dead empires! and control
In their shut breasts their petty misery.
What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way
O er steps of broken thrones and temples. Ye!
Whose agonies are evil of a day -
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.”
Childe Harold IV, LXXVII