Till at last they show the Pontiff, a
lay figure stuffed and tinselled;
Under canopy and fan-plumes he is borne
in splendor proud
To a show-box of the temple overlooking
the Piazza;
There he gives his benediction to the
long-expectant crowd.
Benediction! while the people, blighted,
cursed by superstition,
Steeped in ignorance and darkness, taxed
and starved, looks up and begs
For a little light and freedom, for a
little law and justice,—
That at least the cup so bitter it may
drain not to the dregs!
Benediction! while old error keeps alive
a nameless terror!
Benediction! while the poison at each
pore is entering deep,
And the sap is slowly withered, and the
wormy fruit is gathered,
And a vampire sucks the life out while
the soul is fanned asleep!
Oh, the splendor gluts the senses, while
the spirit pines and dwindles!
Mother Church is but a dry-nurse, singing
while her infant moans;
While anon a cake or rattle gives a little
half-oblivion,
And the sweetness and the glitter mingle
with her drowsy tones.
But the infant moans and tosses with a
nameless want and anguish,
While, with coarse, unmeaning bushings,
louder sings the hireling
nurse,—
Knows no better, in her dull and superannuated
blindness,—
Tries no potion,—seeks no nurture,—but
consents to worse and worse.
If such be thy ultimation, Church of infinite
pretension,—
Such within thy chosen garden be the flowers
and fruits you bear,—
Oh, give me the book of Nature, open wide
to every creature,
And the unconsecrated thoughts that spring
like daisies everywhere!
Send me to the woods and waters,—to
the studio,—to the market!
Give me simple conversation, books, arts,
sports, and friends sincere!
Let no priest be e’er my tutor!
on my brow no label written!
Coin or passport to salvation, rather
none, than beg it here!
Give me air, and not a prison,—love
for Heart, and light for Reason!
Let me walk no slave or bigot,—God’s
untrammelled, fearless child!
Yield me rights each soul is born to,—rights
not given and not taken,—
Free to Cardinals and Princes and Campagna
shepherds wild.
Like these Roman fountains gushing clear
and sweet in open spaces,
Where the poorest beggar stoops to drink,
and none can say him nay,—
Let the Law, the Truth, be common, free
to man and child and woman,
Living waters for the souls that now in
sickness waste away!
Therefore are these fields far sweeter
than yon temple of Saint Peter;
Through this grander dome of azure God
looks down and blesses all;
In these fields the birds sing clearer,
to the Eternal Heart are nearer,
Than the sad monastic chants that yonder
on my ears did fall.
Never smiled Christ’s holy Vicar
on the heretic and sinner
As this sun—true type of Godhead—smiles
o’er all the peopled land!
Sweeter smells this blowing clover than
the perfume of the censer,
And the touch of Spring is kinder than
the Pontiff’s jewelled hand!