1. O 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.

(Canto the Fourth, LXXVIII.)

: dost thou flow
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress!

(Canto the Fourth, LXXIX.)
From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Lord Byron.