Three Songs on Texts of Oscar Wilde

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.

II.
And yet what joy it were for me
To turn my feet unto the south,
And journeying towards the Tiber mouth
To kneel again at Fiesole!
And wandering through the tangled pines
That break the gold of Arno’s stream,
To see the purple mist and gleam
Of morning on the Apennines.
By many a vineyard-hidden home,
Orchard, and olive-garden grey,
Till from the drear Campagna’s way
The seven hills bear up the dome!

III.
A pilgrim from the northern seas — 
What joy for me to seek alone
The wondrous Temple, and the throne
Of Him who holds the awful keys!
When, bright with purple and with gold,
Come priest and holy Cardinal,
And borne above the heads of all
The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.
O joy to see before I die
The only God-anointed King,
And hear the silver trumpets ring
A triumph as He passes by!
Or at the altar of the shrine
Holds high the mystic sacrifice,
And shows a God to human eyes
Beneath the veil of bread and wine.

IV.
For lo, what changes time can bring!
The cycles of revolving years
May free my heart from all its fears, — 
And teach my lips a song to sing.
Before yon field of trembling gold
Is garnered into dusty sheaves,
Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leaves
Flutter as birds adown the wold,
I may have run the glorious race,
And caught the torch while yet aflame,
And called upon the holy name
Of Him who now doth hide His face.

I wandered in Scoglietto’s green retreat,
The oranges on each o’erhanging spray
Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;
Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet
Made snow of all the blossoms, at my feet
Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:
And the curved waves that streaked the sapphire bay
Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.
Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,
“Jesus the Son of Mary has been slain,
O come and fill his sepulchre with flowers.”
Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours
Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,
The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers, and the Spear.

O Singer of Persephone!
    In the dim meadows desolate
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still through the ivy flits the bee
    Where Amaryllis lies in state;
O singer of Persephone!

Simaetha calls on Hecate
    And hears the wild dogs at the gate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still by the light and laughing sea
    Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate:
O Singer of Persephone!

And still in boyish rivalry
    Young Daphnis challenges his mate:
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,
    For thee the jocund shepherds wait,
O Singer of Persephone!
Dost thou remember Sicily?