Kept quiet like the snake ’neath Michael’s foot
Who stands calm just because he feels it writhe. 
Or, if that’s too ambitious—­here’s my box—­
I need the excitation of a pinch 670
Threatening the torpor of the inside-nose
Nigh on the imminent sneeze that never comes. 
“Leave it in peace” advise the simple folk: 
Make it aware of peace by itching-fits,
Say I—­let doubt occasion still more faith!

You ’ll say, once all believed, man, woman, child,
In that dear middle-age these noodles praise. 
How you’d exult if I could put you back
Six hundred years, blot out cosmogony,
Geology, ethnology, what not, 680
(Greek endings, each the little passing-bell
That signifies some faith’s about to die)
And set you square with Genesis again—­
When such a traveller told you his last news,
He saw the ark a-top of Ararat
But did not climb there since ’twas getting dusk
And robber-bands infest the mountain’s foot! 
How should you feel, I ask, in such an age,
How act?  As other people felt and did;
With soul more blank than this decanter’s knob, 690
Believe—­and yet lie, kill, rob, fornicate
Full in belief’s face, like the beast you’d be!

No, when the fight begins within himself,
A man’s worth something.  God stoops o’er his head,
Satan looks up between his feet—­both tug—­
He’s left, himself, i’ the middle:  the soul wakes
And grows.  Prolong that battle through his life! 
Never leave growing till the life to come! 
Here, we’ve got callous to the Virgin’s winks
That used to puzzle people wholesomely:  700
Men have outgrown the shame of being fools. 
What are the laws of nature, not to bend
If the Church bid them?—­brother Newman asks. 
Up with the Immaculate Conception, then—­
On to the rack with faith!—­is my advice. 
Will not that hurry us upon our knees,
Knocking our breasts, “It can’t be—­yet it shall! 
Who am I, the worm, to argue with my Pope? 
Low things confound the high things!” and so forth. 
That’s better than acquitting God with grace 710
As some folk do.  He’s tried—­no case is proved,
Philosophy is lenient—­he may go!

You’ll say, the old system’s not so obsolete
But men believe still:  ay, but who and where? 
King Bomba’s lazzaroni foster yet
The sacred flame, so Antonelli writes;
But even of these, what ragamuffin-saint
Believes God watches him continually,
As he believes in fire that it will burn,
Or rain that it will drench him?  Break fire’s law, 720
Sin against rain, although the penalty
Be just a singe or soaking?  “No,” he smiles;
“Those laws are laws that can enforce themselves.”