To leave which lures

Of wider subject through past years,―behold, We come back from the popedom to the pope,

To ponder what he must be, ere we are bold
For what he may be, with our heavy hope

To trust upon his soul. So, fold by fold,
Explore this mummy in the priestly cope,
Transmitted through the darks of time, to catch
The man within the wrappage, and discern
How he, an honest man, upon the watch
Full fifty years for what a man may learn,

Contrived to get just there; with what a snatch Of old-world oboli he had to earn

The passage through; with what a drowsy sop, To drench the busy barkings of his brain;

What ghosts of pale tradition, wreathed with hop 'Gainst wakeful thought, he had to entertain

For heavenly visions; and consent to stop
The clock at noon, and let the hour remain
(Without vain windings-up) inviolate
Against all chimings from the belfry. Lo,
From every given pope you must abate,

Albeit you love him, some things-good, you know—
Which every given heretic you hate,
Assumes for his, as being plainly so.

A pope must hold by popes a little,—yes,
By councils, from Nicea up to Trent,—

By hierocratic empire, more or less Irresponsible to men, - he must resent

VOL. III.

T

Each man's particular conscience, and repress Inquiry, meditation, argument,

As tyrants faction. Also, he must not Love truth too dangerously, but prefer

'The interests of the Church,' (because a blot Is better than a rent, in miniver)

Submit to see the people swallow hot Husk-porridge, which his chartered churchmen stir Quoting the only true God's epigraph, 'Feed my lambs, Peter!'—must consent to sit Attesting with his pastoral ring and staff To such a picture of our Lady, hit

Off well by artist-angels, (though not half As fair as Giotto would have painted it)— To such a vial, where a dead man's blood Runs yearly warm beneath a churchman's finger,— To such a holy house of stone and wood, Whereof a cloud of angels was the bringer

From Bethlehem to Loreto. Were it good

For any pope on earth to be a flinger

Of stones against these high-niched counterfeits? Apostates only are iconoclasts.

He dares not say, while this false thing abets

That true thing, 'this is false.' He keeps his fasts

And prayers, as prayer and fast were silver frets

To change a note upon a string that lasts,

And make a lie a virtue. Now, if he

Did more than this, higher hoped, and braver dared,

I think he were a pope in jeopardy,
Or no pope rather, for his truth had barred
The vaulting of his life,-and certainly,
If he do only this, mankind's regard

Moves on from him at once, to seek some new
Teacher and leader. He is good and great
According to the deeds a pope can do;
Most liberal, save those bonds; affectionate,
As princes may be, and, as priests are, true;
But only the ninth Pius after eight,

When all's praised most. At best and hopefullest, He's pope-we want a man! his heart beats warm, But, like the prince enchanted to the waist, He sits in stone and hardens by a charm Into the marble of his throne high-placed. Mild benediction waves his saintly arm

So, good! but what we want's a perfect man,
Complete and all alive: half travertine

Half suits our need, and ill subserves our plan.
Feet, knees, nerves, sinews, energies divine
Were never yet too much for men who ran
In such hard ways as must be this of thine,

Deliverer whom we seek, whoe'er thou art,
Pope, prince, or peasant! If, indeed, the first,
The noblest, therefore! since the heroic heart
Within thee must be great enough to burst

Those trammels buckling to the baser part Thy saintly peers in Rome, who crossed and cursed With the same finger.

Come, appear, be found,

If pope or peasant, come! we hear the cock,

The courtier of the mountains when first crowned With golden dawn; and orient glories flock

To meet the sun upon the highest ground.

Take voice and work! we wait to hear thee knock
At some one of our Florentine nine gates,
On each of which was imaged a sublime

Face of a Tuscan genius, which, for hate's
And love's sake, both, our Florence in her prime
Turned boldly on all comers to her states,
As heroes turned their shields in antique time
Emblazoned with honourable acts. And though
The gates are blank now of such images,

And Petrarch looks no more from Nicolo Toward dear Arezzo, 'twixt the acacia-trees, Nor Dante, from gate Gallo-still we know, Despite the razing of the blazonries,

Remains the consecration of the shield:
The dead heroic faces will start out

On all these gates, if foes should take the field,
And blend sublimely, at the earliest shout,
With living heroes who will scorn to yield
A hair's-breadth even, when, gazing round about,
They find in what a glorious company

They fight the foes of Florence. Who will grudge
His one poor life, when that great man we see

Has given five hundred years, the world being judge, To help the glory of his Italy?

Who, born the fair side of the Alps, will budge,
When Dante stays, when Ariosto stays,
When Petrarch stays for ever? Ye bring swords,
My Tuscans? Ay, if wanted in this haze,
Bring swords but first bring souls!-bring thoughts
and words,

Unrusted by a tear of yesterday's

Yet awful by its wrong, and cut these cords,
And mow this green lush falseness to the roots,
And shut the mouth of hell below the swathe!
And, if ye can bring songs too, let the lute's
Recoverable music softly bathe

Some poet's hand, that, through all bursts and bruits
Of popular passion, all unripe and rathe
Convictions of the popular intellect,
Ye may not lack a finger up the air,
Annunciative, reproving, pure, erect,

To show which way your first Ideal bare
The whiteness of its wings when (sorely pecked

By falcons on your wrists) it unaware

Arose up overhead and out of sight.

Meanwhile, let all the far ends of the world

Breathe back the deep breath of their old delight, To swell the Italian banner just unfurled.

Help, lands of Europe! for, if Austria fight,
The drums will bar your slumber. Had ye curled
The laurel for your thousand artists' brows,
If these Italian hands had planted none?