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CRUCE AND CORONA.
Through lines and colors rare still thrill the soulWith beauty's holy and mysterious pow'r. Yes, hail! Italia, though thy fallen RomeHath verified the great, the solemn truthThat pow'r and strength with virtue unalliedThemselves work out their own sad overthrow.But Art, the Heaven—born, immortal lives,And while Art lives, Italia cannot die.
Receive, O Art! this worshiper who comesFrom her far island home to meet thee here;And may the light of hope within her soulGrow brighter at thy presence, while she hearsBy thee these words repeated, "Win thy crown."
O gorgeous land of India! unto thee,Upon her life-cross leaning, cometh she,The sad-eyed one, upon the Gospel shrineHer lovely life to offer. Fragile sheAs snowy.lily of the island dell.Blow lightly o'er her, O ye tropic airs!And waft no poison-vapors on your wing.And long, O India! may she dwell with thee,To bless thy children with her ministries.Now light to her the burden of the cross,The cross her birthright, her inheritance;Her youthful spirit leaning on the strength
