| |
| THE TALL, sallow guardsmen their horse-tails have spread, | |
| Flaming out in their violet, yellow, and red; | |
| And behind go the lackeys in crimson and buff, | |
| And the chamberlains gorgeous in velvet and ruff; | |
| Next, in red-legged pomp, come the cardinals forth, | 5 |
| Each a lord of the church and a prince of the earth. | |
| |
| What ’s this squeak of the fife, and this batter of drum? | |
| Lo! the Swiss of the Church from Perugia come,— | |
| The militant angels, whose sabres drive home | |
| To the hearts of the malcontents, cursed and abhorred, | 10 |
| The good Father’s missives, and “Thus saith the Lord!” | |
| And lend to his logic the point of the sword! | |
| |
| O maids of Etruria, gazing forlorn | |
| O’er dark Thrasymenus, dishevelled and torn! | |
| O fathers, who pluck at your gray beards for shame! | 15 |
| O mothers, struck dumb by a woe without name! | |
| Well ye know how the Holy Church hireling behaves, | |
| And his tender compassion of prisons and graves! | |
| |
| There they stand, the hired stabbers, the blood-stains yet fresh, | |
| That splashed like red wine from the vintage of flesh,— | 20 |
| Grim instruments, careless as pincers and rack | |
| How the joints tear apart, and the strained sinews crack; | |
| But the hate that glares on them is sharp as their swords, | |
| And the sneer and the scowl print the air with fierce words! | |
| |
| Off with hats, down with knees, shout your vivas like mad! | 25 |
| Here ’s the Pope in his holiday righteousness clad, | |
| From shorn crown to toe-nail, kiss-worn to the quick, | |
| Of sainthood in purple the pattern and pick, | |
| Who the rôle of the priest and the soldier unites, | |
| And, praying like Aaron, like Joshua fights! | 30 |
| |
| Is this Pio Nono the gracious, for whom | |
| We sang our hosannas and lighted all Rome; | |
| With whose advent we dreamed the new era began | |
| When the priest should be human, the monk be a man? | |
| Ah, the wolf’s with the sheep, and the fox with the fowl, | 35 |
| When freedom we trust to the crozier and cowl! | |
| |
| Stand aside, men of Rome! Here ’s a hangman-faced Swiss | |
| (A blessing for him surely can’t go amiss) | |
| Would kneel down the sanctified slipper to kiss. | |
| Short shrift will suffice him,—he ’s blest beyond doubt; | 40 |
| But there ’s blood on his hands which would scarcely wash out, | |
| Though Peter himself held the baptismal spout! | |
| |
| Make way for the next! Here ’s another sweet son! | |
| What ’s this mastiff-jawed rascal in epaulets done? | |
| He did, whispers rumor, (its truth God forbid!) | 45 |
| At Perugia what Herod at Bethlehem did. | |
| And the mothers?—Don’t name them!—these humors of war | |
| They who keep him in service must pardon him for. | |
| |
| Hist! here ’s the arch-knave in a cardinal’s hat, | |
| With the heart of a wolf and the stealth of a cat | 50 |
| (As if Judas and Herod together were rolled), | |
| Who keeps, all as one, the Pope’s conscience and gold, | |
| Mounts guard on the altar, and pilfers from thence, | |
| And flatters St. Peter while stealing his pence! | |
| |
| Who doubts Antonelli? Have miracles ceased | 55 |
| When robbers say mass, and Barabbas is priest? | |
| When the Church eats and drinks, at its mystical board, | |
| The true flesh and blood carved and shed by its sword, | |
| When its martyr, unsinged, claps the crown on his head, | |
| And roasts, as his proxy, his neighbor instead! | 60 |
| |
| There! the bells jow and jangle the same blessed way | |
| That they did when they rang for Bartholomew’s day. | |
| Hark! the tallow-faced monsters, nor women nor boys, | |
| Vex the air with a shrill, sexless horror of noise. | |
| Te Deum laudamus!—All round without stint | 65 |
| The incense-pot swings with a taint of blood in ’t! | |
| |
| And now for the blessing! Of little account, | |
| You know, is the old one they heard on the Mount. | |
| Its giver was landless, his raiment was poor, | |
| No jewelled tiara his fishermen wore; | 70 |
| No incense, no lackeys, no riches, no home, | |
| No Swiss guards!—We order things better at Rome. | |
| |
| So bless us the strong hand, and curse us the weak; | |
| Let Austria’s vulture have food for her beak; | |
| Let the wolf-whelp of Naples play Bomba again, | 75 |
| With his death-cap of silence, and halter, and chain; | |
| Put reason and justice and truth under ban; | |
| For the sin unforgiven is freedom for man! | |
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