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 Yet through thy dead Maremma let his name Take flight and pass in flame, And the red ruin of disastrous hours Shall quicken into flowers. Praise him, O fiery child of sun and sea, Naples, who bade thee be; For till he sent the swords that scourge and save, Thou wast not, but thy grave. But more than all these praise him and give thanks, Thou, from thy Tiber's banks, From all thine hills and from thy supreme dome, Praise him, O risen Rome. Let all thy children cities at thy knee Lift up their voice with thee, Saying ‘for thy love's sake and our perished grief We laud thee, O our chief;’ Saying ‘for thine hand and help when hope was dead We thank thee, O our head;’ Saying ‘for thy voice and face within our sight We bless thee, O our light; For waters cleansing us from days defiled We praise thee, O our child.’

So with an hundred cities' mouths in one Praising thy supreme son, Son of thy sorrow, O mother, O maid and mother, Our queen, who serve none other, Our lady of pity and mercy, and full of grace, Turn otherwhere thy face,