Grace so exceeding shines, before thy time
Of mortal dissolution.  I was root
Of that ill plant, whose shade such poison sheds
O’er all the Christian land, that seldom thence
Good fruit is gather’d.  Vengeance soon should come,
Had Ghent and Douay, Lille and Bruges power;
And vengeance I of heav’n’s great Judge implore. 
Hugh Capet was I high:  from me descend
The Philips and the Louis, of whom France
Newly is govern’d; born of one, who ply’d
The slaughterer’s trade at Paris.  When the race
Of ancient kings had vanish’d (all save one
Wrapt up in sable weeds) within my gripe
I found the reins of empire, and such powers
Of new acquirement, with full store of friends,
That soon the widow’d circlet of the crown
Was girt upon the temples of my son,
He, from whose bones th’ anointed race begins. 
Till the great dower of Provence had remov’d
The stains, that yet obscur’d our lowly blood,
Its sway indeed was narrow, but howe’er
It wrought no evil:  there, with force and lies,
Began its rapine; after, for amends,
Poitou it seiz’d, Navarre and Gascony. 
To Italy came Charles, and for amends
Young Conradine an innocent victim slew,
And sent th’ angelic teacher back to heav’n,
Still for amends.  I see the time at hand,
That forth from France invites another Charles
To make himself and kindred better known. 
Unarm’d he issues, saving with that lance,
Which the arch-traitor tilted with; and that
He carries with so home a thrust, as rives
The bowels of poor Florence.  No increase
Of territory hence, but sin and shame
Shall be his guerdon, and so much the more
As he more lightly deems of such foul wrong. 
I see the other, who a prisoner late
Had steps on shore, exposing to the mart
His daughter, whom he bargains for, as do
The Corsairs for their slaves.  O avarice! 
What canst thou more, who hast subdued our blood
So wholly to thyself, they feel no care
Of their own flesh?  To hide with direr guilt
Past ill and future, lo! the flower-de-luce
Enters Alagna! in his Vicar Christ
Himself a captive, and his mockery
Acted again!  Lo! to his holy lip
The vinegar and gall once more applied! 
And he ’twixt living robbers doom’d to bleed! 
Lo! the new Pilate, of whose cruelty
Such violence cannot fill the measure up,
With no degree to sanction, pushes on
Into the temple his yet eager sails! 
     “O sovran Master! when shall I rejoice
To see the vengeance, which thy wrath well-pleas’d
In secret silence broods?—­While daylight lasts,
So long what thou didst hear of her, sole spouse
Of the Great Spirit, and on which thou turn’dst
To me for comment, is the general theme
Of all our prayers:  but when it darkens, then
A different strain we utter, then record
Pygmalion, whom his gluttonous thirst of gold
Made traitor, robber, parricide:  the woes