Fountain of woe!  Harbour of endless ire! 
    Thou school of errors, haunt of heresies! 
    Once Rome, now Babylon, the world’s disease,
    That maddenest men with fears and fell desire! 
  O forge of fraud!  O prison dark and dire,
    Where dies the good, where evil breeds increase! 
    Thou living Hell!  Wonders will never cease
    If Christ rise not to purge thy sins with fire. 
  Founded in chaste and humble poverty,
    Against thy founders thou dost raise thy horn,
    Thou shameless harlot!  And whence flows this pride? 
  Even from foul and loathed adultery,
    The wage of lewdness.  Constantine, return! 
    Not so:  the felon world its fate must bide.

* * * * *

TO STEFANO COLONNA

WRITTEN FROM VAUCLUSE

  Glorius Colonna, thou on whose high head
    Rest all our hopes and the great Latin name,
    Whom from the narrow path of truth and fame
    The wrath of Jove turned not with stormful dread: 
  Here are no palace-courts, no stage to tread;
    But pines and oaks the shadowy valleys fill
    Between the green fields and the neighbouring hill,
    Where musing oft I climb by fancy led. 
  These lift from earth to heaven our soaring soul,
    While the sweet nightingale, that in thick bowers
    Through darkness pours her wail of tuneful woe,
  Doth bend our charmed breast to love’s control;
    But thou alone hast marred this bliss of ours,
    Since from our side, dear lord, thou needs must go.

IN VITA DI MADONNA LAURA.  XI

ON LEAVING AVIGNON

  Backward at every weary step and slow
    These limbs I turn which with great pain I bear;
    Then take I comfort from the fragrant air
    That breathes from thee, and sighing onward go. 
  But when I think how joy is turned to woe,
    Remembering my short life and whence I fare,
    I stay my feet for anguish and despair,
    And cast my tearful eyes on earth below. 
  At times amid the storm of misery
    This doubt assails me:  how frail limbs and poor
    Can severed from their spirit hope to live. 
  Then answers Love:  Hast thou no memory
    How I to lovers this great guerdon give,
    Free from all human bondage to endure?

* * * * *

IN VITA DI MADONNA LAURA.  XII

THOUGHTS IN ABSENCE

  The wrinkled sire with hair like winter snow
    Leaves the beloved spot where he hath passed his years,
    Leaves wife and children, dumb with bitter tears,
    To see their father’s tottering steps and slow. 
  Dragging his aged limbs with weary woe,
    In these last days of life he nothing fears,