On the classic shore of Como, ‘ Neath a headland steep and bold, Which, though leaden at the dawning, In the sunset turns to gold,
Nestles beautiful Varenna, Still invested with renown By the legend that connects it With the Lombards’ Iron Crown.
Far above it on the mountain Stands the castle, old and gray, With its battlements in ruin And its towers in decay;
But a subtle charm still lingers Round that residence sublime, And the beauty of its story Is triumphant over time.
As we trace its ancient pavement, As we tread its roofless halls, How alluring is the figure Which this castle still recalls!
For‘ tis Queen Theodelinda Whom its ruined arches frame, And the passing breeze seems laden With the music of her name.
As we gaze from ivied ramparts On the storied lake below, We forget the world about us For the world of long ago,
When the Lombards had descended From the mountains to the plain, And all Italy lay mourning For the thousands of her slain;
When their brave, ambitious leader, Not content to make his home By these northern lakes of beauty, Had resolved to capture Rome!
For no longer could her legions His resistless course withstand, And the road lay open, southward, To the conquest of the land.
When his valiant host stood ready And impatient for the start, What reversed their king's decision? What so changed the warlord's heart?
‘ Twas the passionate entreaty Of his wife,— a Christian queen; ‘ Twas the conquest of the pagan By the lowly Nazarene.
Through her prayers Rome's agèd Pontiff From the threatened doom was freed; By her aid the Church was strengthened As the king professed its creed;
And Saint Peter's great successor, Thus preserved from grievous loss, Gave to her, his faithful daughter, A true relic of the Cross.
What to pious Theodelinda Could be recompense more sweet Than the nail, forever sacred, That once pierced her Saviour's feet?
Which, when rounded to a circlet, ( To fine wire beaten down,) Then became the precious basis Of the Lombards’ Iron Crown.
Through the ages that have followed What a line of the Renowned Have been proud to wear this emblem, As they, each in turn, were crowned!
Charlemagne, Charles Fifth, Napoleon, German Kaisers by the score, And at last poor King Umberto, Basely slain at Monza's door!
Since that coronet was fashioned Fifteen centuries have passed O'er the castle by Lake Como, Where the good queen breathed her last;
But the Crown is still at Monza, And its iron basic line Tells the world of human glory And the death of the Divine.
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