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"Eve after eve that haggard anchorite Would haunt the desolated fane, and there Gaze at the ruin, often mutter low 'Vicisti Galilaee'; louder again, Spurning a shatter'd fragment of the God, 'Vicisti Galilaee! but when now Bathed in that lurid crimson ask'd 'Is earth On fire to the West? or is the Demon-god Wroth at his fall? and heard an answer 'Wake Thou deedless dreamer, lazying out a life Of self-suppression, not of selfless love. And once a flight of shadowy fighters crost The disk, and once, he thought, a shape with wings Came sweeping by him, and pointed to the West, And at his ear he heard a whisper 'Rome, And in his heart he cried 'The call of God! And call'd arose, and, slowly plunging down Thro' that disastrous glory, set his face By waste and field and town of alien tongue, Following a hundred sunsets, and the sphere Of westward-wheeling stars; and every dawn Struck from him his own shadow on to Rome.
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