I.
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HE corn has turned from grey to red,Since first my spirit wandered forthFrom 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 sunMarshals the way to Holy Rome. O Blessed Lady, who dost holdUpon the seven hills thy reign!O Mother without blot or stain,Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold! O Roma, Roma, at thy feetI lay this barren gift of song!For, ah! the way is steep and longThat leads unto thy sacred street.
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