At last I kneel in Rome, the bourne, the goal br Of what a multitude of laden hearts! br No pilgrim of them all a wearier soul br Brought ever here, no master of dark arts br A spirit vexed with more discordant parts, br No beggar a scrip barer of all dole; br No son, alas, steps sorer with the darts br Of that rebellious sorrow, his sin's toll. br I kneel and make an offering of my care br And folly, and hurt reason.